HT.  Ml 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


or 


REGINALD  HEBER, 


LATE  LORD  BISHOP  OF  CALCUTTA. 


NEW  YORK 

WORTHINGTON  CO.,  74 7  BROADWAY 

1890 


ol*/  --  llI  *■  \  U'  Q-  fcc)  I  Thj  hJCt  r  r[ 


CONTENTS 


PALESTINE.  A  Prize  Poem  ....... 

EUROPE :  Lines  on  the  War  ...... 

-v  ’ 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  RED  SEA  ...... 

FRAGMENT  OF  A  POEM  ON  THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD  •  .  . 

MORTE  D’ ARTHUR.  CANTO  I.  ....... 

MORTE  D’ ARTHUR.  CANTO  H.  - 

MORTE  D’ ARTHUR.  CANTO  HI.  ...... 

CARMEN  SECULARS  ........ 

FRAGMENT  FROM  THE  MASQUE  OF  GWENDOLEN  .... 

BLUE-BEARD  •  •  -  - 

TO  LIEUTENANT-GENERAL  8IR  ROWLAND  HILL,  K.  E. 

LINES  SPOKEN  IN  THE  THEATRE,  OXFORD,  ON  LORD  GRENVILLE’S  INSTALLATION 
AS  CHANCELLOR  ........ 

EPITAPH  ON  A  YOUNG  NAVAL  OFFICER  ...... 

FRAOMENT  ON  ALCHEMY  ....... 

HONOUR  ITS  OWN  REWARD  ........ 


(8) 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS — Continued. 
timouk’s  councils  - 

THE  SPRING  JOURNEY  .  -  •  -  - 

HAPPINESS  - 

ON  HEAVENLY  AND  EARTHLY  HOPE  . 

MiX'S  PILGRIMAGE  - 

FAREWELL  - 

THE  OUTWARD-BOUND  SHIP  - 

TO  CHAUNCEY  HARE  TOWNSHEND,  ON  HIS  LINES  PRAISING  THE  TRANQUILLITY  OF 
A  RIVER,  WHILE  THE  SEA  WAS  HEARD  ON  THE  NEIGHBOURING  SHORE  • 

ON  CROSSING  THE  RANGE  OF  HIGH  LAND  BETWEEN  STONE  AND  MARKET  DRAYTON, 

jan.  4, 1820  . 

LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  MRS.  HEBER  - 

AN  EVENING  WALK  IN  BENGAL  ...... 

INSCRIPTION  PROPOSED  FOR  THE  VASE,  PRESENTED  TO  SIR  WATKIN  WILLIAMS 
WYNN,  BY  THE  NOBILITY  AND  GENTRY  OF  DENBIGHSHIRE,  AT  THE  CONCLU¬ 
SION  OF  THE  WAR  IN  1815  ....... 

THE  WELL  OF  OBLIVION  ....... 

THE  ORACLE  ......... 


HYMNS. 


ADVENT  SUNDAY  ... 
SECOND  SUNDAY  IN  ADVENT,  NO.  1 
SECOND  SUNDAY  IN  ADVENT,  NO.  2 
THIRD  SUNDAY  IN  ADVENT 
FOURTH  SUNDAY  IN  ADVENT 
CHRISTMAS  DAY  - 

ST.  STEPHEN’S  DAY 
8T.  JOHN  THE  EVANGELIST’S  DAT 
INNOCENTS’  DAY  - 
EPIPHANY  - 

FIRST  SUNDAY  AFTER  EPIPHANY,  NO.  1 


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V 


PAGE 

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CONTENTS. 


HY  MNS — Continued. 

SIXTEENTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY  * 

NINETEENTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY 
TWENTY-FIRST  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY 
TWENTY-SECOND  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY 
TWENTY-THIRD  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY 
TWENTY-FOURTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY  *  * 

FOR  ST.  JAMES’S  DAY  * 

MICHAELMAS  DAY  - 

IN  TIMES  OF  DISTRESS  AND  DANGER 

BEFORE  a  COLLECTION  MADE  FOR  THE  SOCIETY  FOR  THE  PROPAGATION  OF 
GOSPEL  •  - 

BEFORE  THE  8ACRAMBNT 
EVENING  HYMN 
AT  A  FUNERAL  * 

AN  INTROIT,  TO  BE  SUNG  BETWEEN  THE  LITANY  AND  COMMUNION  SERVICE 

AT  A  FUNERAL  - 

ON  RECOVERY  FROM  SICKNESS  - 


HH 


SONGS. 


BONG  TO  A  SCOTCH  AIR  • 

THE  RISINO  OF  THE  SUN 
IMITATION  OF  A  SONG  - 
SONG  TO  A  WELSH  AIR 
SONG  TO  A  WELSH  AIR  • 

CAROL  FOR  MAY  DAY 
TO -  - 

PARODY  ON  USTON’S  “BEAUTIFUL  MAID”  * 

BOW-MEETING  SONG 
BOW-MEETING  BONG  - 
BOW-MEETING  SONG 
BOW-MEETING  BONO  *  * 


CONTENTS 


vii 


SONGS — Continued. 

BALLAD . 

LINES  WRITTEN  TO  A  MARCH  COMPOSED  IN  IMITATION  OP  A  MILITARY  BAND 
TO  A  WELSH  AIR  - 

THE  GROUND  SWELL  ...... 

TRANSLATIONS,  etc. 

L  THE  FIRST  OLYMPIC  ODE  ..... 

2.  TO  T  HERON  OP  AGRAGAS,  VICTOR  IN  THE  CHARIOT  RACE 

3.  TO  THE  SAME  -  -  -  - 

4.  TO  PSAUMIS  OF  CAMARINA  - 
6.  TO  THE  SAME  - 

.  6.  TO  AGESIAS  OF  SYRACUSE  -  • 

TRANSLATION  OF  A  FRAGMENT  OF  A  DANISH  SONG  - 
TRANSLATION  OF  AN  INSCRIPTION  ON  A  MONUMENT 
VERSIFICATION  OF  THE  SPEECH  OF  GEOORGIN  TO  BEYUN  - 
FROM  THE  MOALLAKAH  OF  HARETH  .... 
TRANSLATION  OF  AN  ODE  OF  KLOPSTOCK’S  ... 

TRANSLATION  OF  AN  INSCRIPTION  RECENTLY  DISCOVERED  IN  SAMOS 
TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN  • 

FROM  THE  GULISTAN  ...... 

FROM  THE  GULISTAN  ...... 

FROM  THE  GULISTAN  ...... 

IMITATION  OF  AN  ODE  BY  KOODRUT  .... 

TRANSLATION  OF  A  SONNET  - 

THE  BOKE  OF  THE  PURPLE  FAUCON  .... 

WRITTEN  AT  BIRMINGHAM  DURING  A  SLEEPLESS  NIGHT 
R.  W.  HAY,  ESQ  ....... 

A  FRAGMENT  ....... 


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PALESTINE. 


Reft  of  thy  sons,  amid  thy  foes  forlorn, 

Mourn,  widow’d  Queen,  forgotten  Sion,  mourn ! 

Is  this  thy  place,  sad  city,  this  thy  throne, 

Where  the  wild  desert  rears  its  craggy  stone ; 

While  suns  unblest  their  angry  lustre  fling, 

And  way-worn  pilgrims  seek  the  scanty  spring  ? — 
Where  now  thy  pomp,  which  kings  with  envy  view’d  ? 
Where  now  thy  might,  which  all  those  kings  subdued  ? 
No  martial  myriads  muster  in  thy  gate ; 

No  suppliant  nations  in  thy  Temple  wait; 

No  prophet  bards,  thy  glittering  courts  among, 

Wake  the  full  lyre,  and  swell  the  tide  of  song : 

But  lawless  force,  and  meagre  want  are  there, 

And  the  quick-darting  eye  of  restless  fear, 

While  cold  oblivion,  ’mid  thy  ruins  laid, 

Folds  his  dank  wing  beneath  the  ivy  shade. 

Ye  guardian  saints  !  ye  warrior  sons  of  Heaven, 

To  whose  high  care  Judaea’s  state  was  given ! 

0  wont  of  old  your  nightly  watch  to  keep, 

A  host  of  gods,  on  Sion’s  towery  steep ! 

If  e’er  your  secret  footsteps  linger  still 
By  Siloa’s  fount,  or  Tabor’s  echoing  hill ; 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


10  ' 

If  e’er  your  song  on  Salem’s  glories  dwell, 

And  mourn  the  captive  land  you  loved  so  well , 

(For  oft,  ’fcis  said,  in  Kedron’s  palmy  vale 
Mysterious  harpings  swell  the  midnight  gale, 

And,  blest  as  balmy  dews  that  Hermon  cheer, 

Melt  in  soft  cadence  on  the  pilgrim’s  ear ;) 

Forgive,  blest  spirits,  if  a  theme  so  high 
Mock  the  weak  notes  of  mortal  minstrelsy ! 

Yet,  might  your  aid  this  anxious  breast  inspire 
With  one  faint  spark  of  Milton’s  seraph  fire, 

Then  should  my  Muse  ascend  with  bolder  flight, 

And  wave  her  eagle-plumes  exulting  in  the  light. 

0  happy  once  in  Heaven’s  peculiar  love, 

Delight  of  men  below,  and  saints  above ! 

Though,  Salem,  now  the  spoiler’s  ruffian  hand 
Has  loosed  his  hell-hounds  o’er  thy  wasted  land ; 
Though  weak,  and  whelm’d  beneath  the  storms  of  fate, 
Thy  house  is  left  unto  thee  desolate ; 

Though  thy  proud  stones  in  cumbrous  ruin  fall, 

And  seas  of  sand  o’ertop  thy  mouldering  wall ; 

Yet  shall  the  Muse  to  fancy’s  ardent  view 
Each  shadowy  trace  of  faded  pomp  renew  : 

And  as  the  seer  on  Pisgah’s  topmost  brow 
With  glistening  eye  beheld  the  plain  below, 

With  prescient  ardour  drank  the  scented  gale, 

And  bade  the  opening  glades  of  Canaan  hail ; 

Her  eagle  eye  shall  scan  the  prospect  wide, 

From  Carmel’s  cliffs  to  Almotana’s  tide; 

The  flinty  waste,  the  cedar-tufted  hill, 

The  liquid  health  of  smooth  Ardeni’s  rill ; 


W- 


PALESTINE. 


11 


1 


The  grot,  where,  by  the  watch-fire’s  evening  blaze, 
The  robber  riots,  or  the  hermit  prays ; 

Or  where  the  tempest  rives  the  hoary  stone, 

The  wintry  top  of  giant  Lebanon. 

Fierce,  hardy,  proud,  in  conscious  freedom  bold, 
Those  stormy  seats  the  warrior  Druses  hold ; 

From  Norman  blood  their  lofty  line  they  trace, 
Their  lion  courage  proves  their  generous  race : 
They,  only  they,  while  all  around  them  kneel 
In  sullen  homage  to  the  Thracian  steel, 

Teach  their  pale  despot’s  waning  Moon  to  fear 
The  patriot  terrors  of  the  mountain  spear. 

Yes,  valorous  chiefs,  while  yet  your  sabres  shine 
The  native  guard  of  feeble  Palestine, 

Oh,  ever  thus,  by  no  vain  boast  dismay’d, 

Defend  the  birthright  of  the  cedar  shade ! 

What  though  no  more  for  you  th’  obedient  gale 
Swells  the  white  bosom  of  the  Tyrian  sail  ? 

Though  now  no  more  your  glittering  marts  unfold 
Sidonian  dyes  and  Lusitanian  gold ; 

Though  not  for  you  the  pale  and  sickly  slave 
Forgets  the  light  in  Ophir’s  wealthy  cave : 

Yet  yours  the  lot,  in  proud  contentment  blest, 
Where  cheerful  labour  leads  to  tranquil  rest. 

No  robber  rage  the  ripening  harvest  knows ; 

And  unrestrain’d  the  generous  vintage  flows : 

Nor  less  your  sons  to  manliest  deeds  aspire, 

And  Asia’s  mountains  glow  with  Spartan  fire. 

So  when,  deep  sinking  in  the  rosy  main, 

The  western  sun  forsakes  the  Syrian  plain, 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


His  watery  rays  refracted  lustre  shed, 

And  pour  their  latest  light  on  Carmel’s  head. 

Yet  shines  your  praise,  amid  surrounding  gloom, 
As  the  lone  lamp  that  trembles  in  the  tomb : 

For  few  the  souls  that  spurn  a  tyrant’s  chain, 

And  small  the  bounds  of  freedom’s  scanty  reign. 

As  the  poor  outcast  on  the  cheerless  wild, 

Arabia’s  parent,  clasp’d  her  fainting  child, 

And  wander’d  near  the  roof,  no  more  her  home, 
Forbid  to  linger,  yet  afraid  to  roam  ; 

My  sorrowing  fancy  quits  the  happier  height, 

And  southward  throws  her  half-averted  sight. 

For  sad  the  scenes  Judaea’s  plains  disclose, 

A  dreary  waste  of  undistinguish’d  woes  : 

See  war  untired  his  crimson  pinions  spread, 

And  foul  revenge  that  tramples  on  the  dead. 

Lo,  where  from  far  the  guarded  fountains  shine, 

Thy  tents,  Nebaioth,  rise,  and  Kedar,  thine  ! 

’Tis  yours  the  boast  to  mark  the  stranger’s  way, 
And  spur  your  headlong  chargers  on  the  prey, 

Or  rouse  your  nightly  numbers  from  afar, 

And  on  the  hamlet  pour  the  waste  of  war  ; 

Nor  spare  the  hoary  head,  nor  bid  your  eye 
Revere  the  sacred  smile  of  infancy. 

Such  now  the  clans,  whose  fiery  coursers  feed 
Where  waves  on  Kishon’s  bank  the  whispering  reed 
And  theirs  the  soil,  where,  curling  to  the  skies, 
Smokes  on  Samaria’s  mount  her  scanty  sacrifice ; 
While  Israel’s  sons,  by  scorpion  curses  driven, 
Outcasts  of  earth,  and  reprobate  of  heaven, 


PALESTINE. 


13 


Through  the  wide  world  in  friendless  exile  stray, 
Remorse  and  shame  sole  comrades  of  their  way, 

V  ith  dumb  despair  their  country’s  wrongs  behold, 
And,  dead  to  glory,  only  burn  for  gold. 

0  Thou,  their  guide,  their  Father,  and  their  Lord, 
Loved  for  Thy  mercies,  for  Thy  power  adored  1 
If  at  Thy  name  the  waves  forgot  their  force, 

And  refluent  Jordan  sought  his  trembling  source  5 
If  at  I  by  name  like  sheep  the  mountains  fled, 

And  haughty  Sirion  bow’d  his  marble  head ; — 

To  Israel’s  wroes  a  pitying  ear  incline, 

And  raise  from  earth  Thy  long-neglected  vine ! 

Her  rifled  fruits  behold  the  heathen  bear, 

And  wild-wood  boars  her  mangled  clusters  tear. 

Was  it  for  this  she  stretch’d  her  peopled  reign 
From  far  Euphrates  to  the  western  main? 

For  this  o’er  many  a  hill  her  boughs  she  threw, 

And  her  wide  arms  like  goodly  cedars  grew  ? 

For  this,  proud  Edom  slept  beneath  her  shade, 

And  o’er  th’  Arabian  deep  her  branches  play’d  ? 

Oh,  feeble  boast  of  transitory  powTer  ! 

Vain,  fruitless  trust  of  Judah’s  happier  hour! 

Not  such  their  hope,  when  through  the  parted  main 
The  cloudy  wronder  led  the  warrior  train : 

Not  such  their  hope,  when  through  the  fields  of  ni^ht 
The  torch  of  heaven  diffused  its  friendly  light  : 

Not,  when  fierce  conquest  urged  the  onward  war, 

And  hurl’d  stern  Canaan  from  his  iron  car  : 

Nor,  when  five  monarchs  led  to  Gibeon’s  fight, 

In  rude  array,  the  harness’d  Amorite : 

2 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yes — in  that  hour,  by  mortal  accents  stay’d, 

The  lingering  sun  his  fiery  wheels  delay’d ; 

The  moon,  obedient,  trembled  at  the  sound, 

Curb’d  her  pale  car,  and  check’d  her  mazy  round 
Let  Sinai  tell — for  she  beheld  His  might, 

And  God’s  own  darkness  veil’d  her  mystic  height  * 
(He,  cherub-borne,  upon  the  whirlwind  rode, 

And  the  red  mountain  like  a  furnace  glow’d ;) 

Let  Sinai  tell — but  who  shall  dare  recite 
His  praise,  His  power,  eternal,  infinite? — 

Awe-struck  I  cease ;  nor  bid  my  strains  aspire, 

Or  serve  His  altar  with  unhallow’d  fire. 

Such  were  the  cares  that  watch’d  o’er  Israel’s  fate, 
And  such  the  glories  of  their  infant  state. 

— Triumphant  race  !  and  did  your  power  decay  ? 
Fail’d  the  bright  promise  of  your  early  day? 

No : — by  that  sword,  which,  red  with  heathen  gore, 

A  giant  spoil,  the  stripling  champion  bore ; 

By  him,  the  chief  to  farthest  India  known, 

The  mighty  master  of  the  ivory  throne : 

In  Heaven’s  own  strength,  high  towering  o’er  her  foes 
Victorious  Salem’s  lion  banner  rose ; 

Before  her  footstool  prostrate  nations  lay, 

And  vassal  tyrants  crouch’d  beneath  her  sway. 

And  he,  the  kingly  sage,  whose  restless  mind 
Through  nature’s  mazes  wander’d  unconfined; 

Who  every  bird,  and  beast,  and  insect  knew, 

And  spake  of  every  plant  that  quaffs  the  dew ; 

To  him  were  known — so  Hagar’s  offspring  tell—* 

The  powerful  sigil  and  the  starry  spell, 


PALESTINE. 


16 


The  midnight  call,  hell’s  shadowy  legions  dread, 

And  sounds  that  burst  the  slumbers  of  the  dead. 

Hence  all  his  might ;  for  who  could  these  oppose  ? 

And  Tadmor  thus,  and  Syrian  Balbec  rose. 

Yet  e’en  the  works  of  toiling  Genii  fall, 

And  vain  was  Estakhar’s  enchanted  wall. 

In  frantic  converse  with  the  mournful  wind, 

There  oft  the  houseless  Santon  rests  reclined; 

Strange  shapes  he  views,  and  drinks  with  wondering  ears 
The  voices  of  the  dead,  and  songs  of  other  years. 

Such,  the  faint  echo  of  departed  praise, 

Still  sound  Arabia’s  legendary  lays ; 

And  thus  their  fabling  bards  delight  to  tell 
How  lovely  were  thy  tents,  0  Israel ! 

For  thee  his  ivory  load  Behemoth  bore, 

And  far  Sofala  teem’d  with  golden  ore  ; 

Thine  all  the  arts  that  wait  on  wealth’s  increase, 

Or  bask  and  wanton  in  the  beam  of  peace. 

When  Tyber  slept  beneath  the  cypress  gloom, 

And  silence  held  the  lonely  woods  of  Home  ; 

Or  e’er  to  Greece  the  builder’s  skill  was  known, 

Or  the  light  chisel  brush’d  the  Parian  stone ; 

Yet  here  fair  Science  nursed  her  infant  fire, 

Fann’d  by  the  artist  aid  of  friendly  Tyre. 

Then  tower’d  the  palace,  then  in  awful  state 
The  Temple  rear’d  its  everlasting  gate : 

No  workman  steel,  no  ponderous  axes  rung ! 

Like  some  tall  palm  the  noiseless  fabric  sprung. 

Majestic  silence  ! — then  the  harp  awoke, 

The  cymbal  clang’d,  the  deep-voiced  trumpet  spoke ; 


16 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  Salem  spread  her  suppliant  arms  abroad, 

View’d  the  descending  flame,  and  bless’d  the  present  God. 

Nor  shrunk  she  then,  when,  raging  deep  and  loud, 

Beat  o’er  her  soul  the  billows  of  the  proud. 

E’en  they  who,  dragg’d  to  Shinar’s  fiery  sand, 

Till’d  with  reluctant  strength  the  stranger’s  land ; 

Who  sadly  told  the  slow-revolving  years, 

And  steep’d  the  captive’s  bitter  bread  with  tears : — 

Yet  oft  their  hearts  with  kindling  hopes  would  burn, 

Their  destined  triumphs,  and  their  glad  return, 

And  their  sad  lyres,  which,  silent  and  unstrung, 

In  mournful  ranks  on  Babel’s  willows  hung, 

Would  oft  awake  to  chant  their  future  fame, 

And  from  the  skies  their  lingering  Saviour  claim. 

His  promised  aid  could  every  fear  control ;  [soul ! 

This  nerved  the  warrior’s  arm,  this  steel’d  the  martyr’s 
— Nor  vain  their  hope :  bright  beaming  through  the  sky, 
Burst  in  full  blaze  the  Day-spring  from  on  high ; 

Earth’s  utmost  isles  exulted  at  the  sight, 

And  crowding  nations  drank  the  orient  light. 

Lo,  star-led  chiefs  Assyrian  odours  bring, 

And  bending  Magi  seek  their  infant  King ! 

Mark’d  ye,  where,  hovering  o’er  his  radiant  head, 

The  dove’s  white  wings  celestial  glory  shed  ? 

Daughter  of  Sion  !  virgin  queen  !  rejoice  ! 

Clap  the  glad  hand  and  lift  th’  exulting  voice ! 

He  comes, — but  not  in  regal  splendour  drest, 

The  haughty  diadem,  the  Tyrian  vest ; 

Not  arm’d  in  flame,  all-glorious  from  afar, 

Of  hosts  the  chieftain,  and  the  lord  of  war : 


PALESTINE. 


11 


Messiah  comes  ! — let  furious  discord  cease ; 

Be  peace  on  earth  before  the  Prince  of  Peace ! 

Disease  and  anguish  feel  His  blest  control, 

And  howling  fiends  release  the  tortured  soul ; 

The  beams  of  gladness  hell’s  dark  caves  illume, 

And  Mercy  broods  above  the  distant  gloom. 

Thou  palsied  earth,  wTith  noonday  night  o’erspread  * 
Thou  sickening  sun,  so  dark,  so  deep,  so  red ! 

Ye  hovering  ghosts,  that  throng  the  starless  air, 

Why  shakes  the  earth  ?  why  fades  the  light  ?  declare  ! 
Are  those  His  limbs,  with  ruthless  scourges  torn  ? 

His  brows,  all  bleeding  with  the  twisted  thorn  ? 

His  the  pale  form,  the  meek,  forgiving  eye 
Raised  from  the  cross  in  patient  agony  ? 

— Be  dark,  thou  sun, — thou  noonday  night,  arise, 

And  hide,  oh  hide,  the  dreadful  sacrifice ! 

Ye  faithful  few,  by  bold  affection  led, 

Who  round  the  Saviour’s  cross  your  sorrows  shed, 

Not  for  His  sake  your  tearful  vigils  keep  ; — 

Weep  for  your  country,  for  your  children  weep  1 
— Vengeance !  thy  fiery  wing  their  race  pursued; 

Thy  thirsty  poniard  blush’d  with  infant  blood. 

Roused  at  thy  call,  and  panting  still  for  game, 

The  bird  of  war,  the  Latian  eagle  came. 

Then  Judah  raged,  by  ruffian  Discord  led, 

Drunk  with  the  steamy  carnage  of  the  dead : 

He  saw  his  sons  by  dubious  slaughter  fall, 

And  war  without,  and  death  within  the  wall. 
Wide-wasting  plague,  gaunt  famine,  mad  despair, 

And  dire  debate,  and  clamorous  strife  was  there ; 

2  * 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Love,  strong  as  death,  retain’d  his  might  no  more, 
And  the  pale  parent  drank  her  children’s  gore. 

Yet  they,  who  wont  to  roam  the  ensanguined  plain, 
And  spurn  with  fell  delight  their  kindred  slain  ; 
E’en  they,  when,  high  above  the  dusty  fight, 

Their  burning  Temple  rose  in  lurid  light, 

To  their  loved  altars  paid  a  parting  groan, 

And  in  their  country’s  woes  forgot  their  own. 

As  ’mid  the  cedar  courts,  and  gates  of  gold, 

The  trampled  ranks  in  miry  carnage  roll’d, 

To  save  their  Temple  every  hand  essay’d, 

And  with  cold  fingers  grasp  d  the  feeble  blade . 
Through  their  torn  veins  reviving  fury  ran, 

And  life’s  last  anger  warm’d  the  dying  man  ! 

But  heavier  far  the  fetter’d  captives’  doom  ! 

To  glut  with  sighs  the  iron  ear  of  Rome : 

To  swell,  slow-pacing  by  the  car’s  tall  side, 

The  stoic  tyrant’s  philosophic  pride ; 

To  flesh  the  lion’s  ravenous  jaws,  or  feel 
The  sportive  fury  of  the  fencer’s  steel ; 

Or  pant,  deep  plunged  beneath  the  sultry  mine, 
For  the  light  gales  of  balmy  Palestine. 

Ah !  fruitful  now  no  more,— an  empty  ccast, 
She  mourn’d  her  sons  enslaved,  her  glories  lost! 
In  her  wide  streets  the  lonely  raven  bred, 

There  bark’d  the  wolf,  and  dire  hyaenas  fed. 

Yet  ’midst  her  towery  fanes,  in  ruin  laid, 

The  pilgrim  saint  his  murmuring  vespers  paid ; 
’Twas  his  to  climb  the  tufted  rocks,  and  rove 
The  chequer’d  twilight  of  the  olive  grove ; 


0  •'  -•» 


PALESTINE.  IS 

’Twas  his  to  bend  beneath  the  sacred  gloom, 

And  wear  with  many  a  kiss  Messiah’s  tomb  : 

While  forms  celestial  fill’d  his  tranced  eye, 

The  daylight  dreams  of  pensive  piety, 

O’er  his  still  breast  a  tearful  fervour  stole, 

And  softer  sorrows  charm’d  the  mourner’s  soul. 

Oh,  lives  there  one,  who  mocks  his  artless  zeal — 

Too  proud  to  worship,  and  too  wise  to  feel? 

Be  his  the  soul  with  wintry  reason  blest, 

The  dull,  lethargic  sovereign  of  the  breast ! 

Be  his  the  life  that  creeps  in  dead  repose, 

No  joy  that  sparkles,  and  no  tear  that  flows  ! 

Far  other  they  who  rear’d  yon  pompous  shrine. 

And  bade  the  rock  with  Parian  marble  shine. 

Then  hallow’d  peace  renew’d  her  wealthy  reign, 

Then  altars  smoked,  and  Sion  smiled  again. 

There  sculptured  gold  and  costly  gems  were  seen, 

And  all  the  bounties  of  the  British  queen  ; 

There  barbarous  kings  their  sandall’d  nations  led, 

And  steel-clad  champions  bow’d  the  crested  head. 

There,  when  her  fiery  race  the  desert  pour’d, 

And  pale  Byzantium  fear’d  Medina’s  sword, 

When  coward  Asia  shook  in  trembling  woe, 

And  bent  appall’d  before  the  Bactrian  bow ; 

From  the  moist  regions  of  the  western  star 
The  wandering  hermit  waked  the  storm  of  war. 

Their  limbs  all  iron,  and  their  souls  all  flame, 

A  countless  host,  the  red-cross  warriors  came ; 

E’en  hoary  priests  the_gacred  combat  wage, 

And  clothe  in  steel  the  palsied  arm  of  age ; 


20 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


While  beardless  youths  and  tender  maids  assume 
The  weighty  morion  and  the  glancing  plume. 

In  sportive  pride  the  warrior  damsels  wdeld 
The  ponderous  falchion,  and  the  sun-like  shield, 

And  start  to  see  their  armour’s  iron  gleam 
Dance  with  blue  lustre  in  Tabaria’s  stream. 

The  blood-red  banner  floating  o’er  their  van, 

All  madly  blithe  the  mingled  myriads  ran : 

Impatient  Death  beheld  his  destined  food, 

And  hovering  vultures  snuff’d  the  scent  of  blood. 

Not  such  the  numbers,  nor  the  host  so  dread, 

By  northern  Brenn  or  Scythian  Timur  led  ; 

Nor  such  the  heart-inspiring  zeal  that  bore 
United  Greece  to  Phrygia’s  reedy  shore ! 

There  Gaul’s  proud  knights  with  boastful  mien  advance, 
Form  the  long  line,  and  shake  the  cornel  lance ; 

Here,- link’d  with  Thrace,  in  close  battalions  stand 
Ausonia’s  sons,  a  soft  inglorious  band ; 

There  the  stern  Norman  joins  the  Austrian  train, 

And  the  dark  tribes  of  late-reviving  Spain ; 

Here  in  black  files,  advancing  firm  and  slow, 

Victorious  Albion  twangs  the  deadly  bow: — 

Albion, — still  prompt  the  captive’s  wrong  to  aid, 

And  wield  in  Freedom’s  cause  the  freeman’s  generous  blade ! 

Ye  sainted  spirits  of  the  warrior  dead, 

Whose  giant  force  Britannia’s  armies  led ! 

Whose  bickering  falchions,  foremost  in  the  fight, 

Still  pour’d  confusion  on  the  Soldan’s  might; 

Lords  of  the  biting  axe  and  beamy  spear, 
Wide-conquering  Edward,  lion  Bichard,  hear ! 


PALESTINE. 


21 


At  Albion’s  call  your  crested  pride  resume, 

And  burst  the  marble  slumbers  of  the  tomb ! 

Your  sons  behold,  in  arm,  in  heart  the  same, 

Still  press  the  footsteps  of  parental  fame, 

To  Salem  still  their  generous  aid  supply, 

And  pluck  the  palm  of  Syrian  chivalry ! 

When  he,  from  towery  Malta’s  yielding  isle, 

And  the  green  waters  of  reluctant  Nile, 

Th’  apostate  chief, — from  Misraim’s  subject  shore 
To  Acre’s  walls  his  trophied  banners  bore  ; 

When  the  pale  desert  mark’d  his  proud  array, 

And  desolation  hoped  an  ampler  sway ; 

What  hero  then  triumphant  Gaul  dismay’d  ? 

What  arm  repell’d  the  victor  Renegade  ? 

Britannia’s  champion  ! — bathed  in  hostile  blood, 
High  on  the  breach  the  dauntless  Seaman  stood : 
Admiring  Asia  saw  th’  unequal  fight, — 

E’en  the  pale  Crescent  bless’d  the  Christian’s  might. 
Oh  day  of  death  !  Oh  thirst,  beyond  control, 

Of  crimson  conquest  in  th’  Invader’s  soul ! 

The  slain,  yet  warm,  by  social  footsteps  trod, 

O’er  the  red  moat  supplied  a  panting  road ; 

O’er  the  red  moat  our  conquering  thunders  flew, 

And  loftier  still  the  grisly  rampire  grew. 

While  proudly  glow’d  above  the  rescued  tower 
The  wavy  cross  that  mark’d  Britannia’s  power. 

Yet  still  destruction  sweeps  the  lonely  plain, 

And  heroes  lift  the  generous  sword  in  vain. 

Still  o’er  her  sky  the  clouds  of  anger  roll, 

And  God’s  revenge  hangs  heavy  on  her  soul. 


22 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


v 


Yet  shall  she  rise ; — but  not  by  war  restored, 

Not  built  in  murder, — planted  by  the  sword: 

Yes!  Salem,  thou  sbalt  rise:  thy  Father’s  aid 
Shall  heal  the  wound  His  chastening  hand  has  made ; 
Shall  judge  the  proud  oppressor’s  ruthless  sway, 

And  burst  his  brazen  bonds,  and  cast  his  cords  away. 
Then  on  your  tops  shall  deathless  verdure  spring, 
Break  forth,  ye  mountains,  and  ye  valleys,  sing  ! 

No  more  your  thirsty  rocks  shall  frown  forlorn, 

The  unbeliever’s  jest,  the  heathen’s  scorn, 

The  sultry  sands  shall  tenfold  harvest  yield, 

And  a  new  Eden  deck  the  thorny  field. 

E’en  now,  perchance,  wide-waving  o’er  the  land, 

That  mighty  angel  lifts  his  golden  wand, 

Courts  the  bright  vision  of  descending  power, 

Tells  every  gate,  and  measures  every  tower ; 

And  chides  the  tardy  seals  that  yet  detain 
Thy  Lion,  Judah,  from  his  destined  reign. 

And  who  is  He  ?  the  vast,  the  awful  form, 

Girt  wfith  the  whirlwind,  sandal’d  with  the  storm  ? 

A  western  cloud  around  His  limbs  is  spread, 

His  crown  a  rainbow,  and  a  sun  His  head. 

To  highest  Heaven  He  lifts  his  kingly  hand, 

And  treads  at  once  the  ocean  and  the  land ; 

And,  hark  !  His  voice  amid  the  thunder’s  roar, 

His  dreadful  voice,  that  time  shall  be  no  more ! 

Lo  !  cherub  hands  the  golden  courts  prepare, 

Lo  !  thrones  arise,  and  every  saint  is  there  ; 

Earth’s  utmost  bounds  confess  their  awful  sway, 

The  mountains  worship,  and  the  isles  obey ; 


PALESTINE). 


Nor  sun  nor  moon  they  need, — nor  day,  nor  night; — 
God  is  their  temple,  and  the  Lamb  their  light : 

And  shall  not  Israel’s  sons  exulting  come, 

Hail  the  glad  beam,  and  claim  their  ancient  home  ? 
On  David’s  throne  shall  David’s  offspring  reign, 

And  the  dry  bones  be  warm  with  life  again. 

Hark  !  white-robed  crowds  their  deep  hosannas  raise, 
And  the  hoarse  flood  repeats  the  sound  of  praise ; 

Ten  thousand  harps  attune  the  mystic  song, 

Ten  thousand  thousand  saints  the  strain  prolong ; 
“Worthy  the  Lamb  !  omnipotent  to  save, 

Who  died,  who  lives,  triumphant  o’er  the  grave  I” 


EUROPE. 


At  that  dread  season  when  th’  indignant  North 
Pour’d  to  vain  wars  her  tardy  numbers  forth, 

When  Frederic  bent  his  ear  to  Europe’s  cry, 

And  fann’d  too  late  the  flame  of  liberty; 

By  feverish  hope  oppress’d,  and  anxious  thought, 

In  Dresden’s  grove  the  dewy  cool  I  sought. 

Through  tangled  boughs  the  broken  moonshine  play’d, 
And  Elbe  slept  soft  beneath  his  linden  shade  ;- 
Yet  slept  not  all ; — I  heard  the  ceaseless  jar, 

The  rattling  wagons,  and  the  wheels  of  war ; 

The  sounding  lash,  the  march’s  mingled  hum, 

And,  lost  and  heard  by  fits,  the  languid  drum ; 

O’er  the  near  bridge  the  thundering  hoofs  that  trode, 
And  the  far-distant  fife  that  thrill’d  along  the  road. 
Yes,  sweet  it  seems  across  some  watery  dell 
To  catch  the  music  of  the  pealing  bell; 

And  sweet  to  list,  as  on  the  beach  we  stray, 

The  ship-boy’s  carol  in  the  wealthy  bay : — 

But  sweet  no  less,  wThen  justice  points  the  spear, 

Of  martial  wrath  the  glorious  din  to  hear, 

To  catch  the  war-note  on  the  quivering  gale, 

And  bid  the  blood-red  paths  of  conquest  hail. 

8  (25) 


V 


26  EUROPE. 

Oli !  song  of  hope,  too  long  delusive  strain ! 

And  hear  we  now  thy  flattering  voice  again  ? 

But  late,  alas !  I  left  thee  cold  and  still, 

Stunn’d  by  the  wrath  of  Heaven,  on  Pratzen’s  hill. 

Oh!  on  that  hill  may  no  kind  month  renew 
The  fertile  rain,  the  sparkling  summer  dew  ! 

Accursed  of  God,  may  those  bleak  summits  tell 
The  field  of  anger  where  the  mighty  fell. 

There  youthful  faith  and  high-born  courage  rest, 

And,  red  with  slaughter,  freedom’s  humbled  crest, 

There  Europe,  soil’d  with  blood  her  tresses  gray, 

And  ancient  honour’s  shield, — all  vilely  thrown  away. 

Thus  mused  my  soul,  as  in  succession  drear 
Rose  each  grim  shape  of  wrath  and  doubt  and  fear ; 
Defeat  and  shame  in  grisly  vision  past, 

And  vengeance,  bought  with  blood,  and  glorious  death  the 
Then  as  my  gaze  their  waving  eagles  met,  [last. 

And  through  the  night  each  sparkling  bayonet, 

Still  memory  told  how  Austria’s  evil  hour 
Had  felt  on  Praga’s  field  a  Frederic’s  power, 

And  Gallia’s  vaunting  train,  and  Moscow’s  horde, 

Had  flesh’d  the  maiden  steel  of  Brunswick’s  sword. 

Oh !  yet  I  deem’d  that  fate,  by  justice  led,  • 

Might  wreathe  once  more  the  veteran’s  silver  head ; 

That  Europe’s  ancient  pride  would  yet  disdain 
The  cumbrous  sceptre  of  a  single  reign  ; 

That  conscious  right  would  tenfold  strength  afford, 

And  Heaven  assist  the  patriot’s  holy  sword, 

And  look  in  mercy  through  th’  auspicious  sky, 

To  bless  the  saviour  host  of  Germany. 


e 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


2? 


And  are  they  dreams,  these  bodings,  such  as  shed 
Their  lonely  comfort  o’er  the  hermit’s  bed  ? 

And  are  they  dreams  ?  or  can  the  Eternal  Mind 
Care  for  a  sparrow,  yet  neglect  mankind  ? 

Why,  if  the  dubious  battle  own  His  power, 

And  the  red  sabre,  where  He  bids,  devour, 

Why  then  can  one  the  curse  of  worlds  deride, 

And  millions  weep  a  tyrant’s  single  pride? 

Thus  sadly  musing,  far  my  footsteps  stray’d, 

Rapt  in  the  visions  of  the  Aonian  maid. 

It  was  not  she,  whose  lonely  voice  I  hear 
Fall  in  soft  whispers  on  my  love-lorn  ear; 

My  daily  guest,  who  wont  my  steps  to  guide 
Through  the  green  walks  of  scented  even-tide, 

Or  stretch’d  with  me  in  noonday  ease  along, 

To  list  the  reaper’s  chant,  or  throstle’s  song : — 

But  she  of  loftier  port;  "whose  grave  control 
Rules  the  fierce  workings  of  the  patriot’s  soul ; 

She,  whose  high  presence,  o’er  the  midnight  oil, 

With  fame’s  bright  promise  cheers  the  student’s  toil ; 
That  same  was  she,  whose  ancient  law  refined 
The  sober  hardihood  of  Sydney’s  mind. 

Borne  on  her  wing,  no  more  I  seem’d  to  rove 
By  Dresden’s  glittering  spires  and  linden  grove ; 

No  more  the  giant  Elbe,  all  silver  bright, 

Spread  his  broad  bosom  to  the  fair  moonlight, 

While  the  still  margent  of  his  ample  flood 
Bore  the  dark  image  of  the  Saxon  wood — 

(Woods  happy  once,  that  heard  the  carols  free, 

Of  rustic  love,  and  cheerful  industry ; 


28 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Now  dull  and  joyless  lie  their  alleys  green, 

And  silence  marks  the  track  where  France  has  been.) 
Far  other  scenes  than  these  my  fancy  view’d  : 

Rocks  robed  in  ice,  a  mountain  solitude ; 

Where  on  Helvetian  hills,  in  godlike  state, 

Alone  and  awful,  Europe’s  Angel  sate : 

Silent  and  stern  he  sate ;  then,  bending  low, 

Listen’d  th’  ascending  plaints  of  human  woe. 

And  waving  as  in  grief  his  towery  head, 

“Not  yet,  not  yet,  the  day  of  rest,”  he  said; 

“  It  may  not  be.  Destruction’s  gory  wing 
Soars  o’er  the  banners  of  the  younger  king, 

Too  rashly  brave,  who  seeks  with  single  sway 
To  stem  the  lava  on  its  destined  way. 

Poor  glittering  warriors,  only  wont  to  know 
The  bloodless  pageant  of  a  martial  show ; 

Nurslings  of  peace,  for  fiercer  fights  prepare, 

And  dread  the  step-dame  sway  of  unaccustom’d  war  ! 
They  fight,  they  bleed  ! — Oh  !  had  that  blood  been  shed 
When  Charles  and  valour  Austria’s  armies  led ; 

Had  these  stood  forth  the  righteous  cause  to  shield, 
When  victory  waver’d  on  Moravia’s  field  ; 

Then  France  had  mourn’d  her  conquests  made  in  vain, 
Her  backward-beaten  ranks,  and  countless  slain ; — 
Then  had  the  strength  of  Europe’s  freedom  stood, 

And  still  the  Rhine  had  roll’d  a  German  flood! 

“  Oh !  nursed  in  many  a  wile,  and  practised  long 
To  spoil  the  poor,  and  cringe  before  the  strong ; 

To  swell  the  victor’s  state,  and  hovering  near, 

Like  some  base  vulture  in  the  battle’s  rear, 


EUROPE. 


To  watch  the  carnage  of  the  field,  and  share 
Each  loathsome  alms  the  prouder  eagles  spare : 

A  curse  is  on  thee,  Brandenburgh  !  the  sound 
Of  Poland’s  wailing  drags  thee  to  the  ground ; 

And,  drunk  with  guilt,  thy  harlot  lips  shall  know 
The  bitter  dregs  of  Austria’s  cup  of  woe. 

“Enough  of  vengeance!  O’er  th’  ensanguined  plain 
I  gaze,  and  seek  their  numerous  hosts  in  vain ; 

Gone  like  the  locust  band,  when  whirlwinds  bear 
Their  flimsy  legions  through  the  waste  of  air. 

Enough  of  vengeance  ! — By  the  glorious  dead, 

Who  bravely  fell  where  youthful  Lewis  led ; 

By  Bliicher’s  sword  in  fiercest  danger  tried, 

And  the  true  heart  that  burst  when  Brunswick  died ; 
By  her  whose  charms  the  coldest  zeal  might  warm, 

The  manliest  firmness  in  the  fairest  form  — 

Save,  Europe,  save  the  remnant ! — Yet  remains 
One  glorious  path  to  free  the  world  from  chains. 

Why,  when  yon  northern  band  in  Eylau’s  wood 
Retreating  struck,  and  track’d  their  course  with  blood 
While  one  firm  rock  the  floods  of  ruin  stay’d, 

Why,  generous  Austria,  were  thy  wheels  delay’d  ? 
And,  Albion  !” — darker  sorrow  veil’d  his  brow — 

“  Friend  of  the  friendless — Albion,  where  art  thou? 
Child  of  the  Sea,  whose  wing-like  sails  are  spread, 

The  covering  cherub  of  the  ocean’s  bed  ! 

The  storm  and  tempest  render  peace  to  thee, 

And  the  wild-roaring  waves  a  stern  security. 

But  hope  not  thou  in  Heaven’s  own  strength  to  ride, 

Freedom’s  loved  ark,  o’er  broad  oppression’s  tide ; 

3  * 


30 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


If  virtue  leave  thee,  if  thy  careless  eye 
Glance  in  contempt  on  Europe’s  agony. 

Alas  !  where  now  the  bands  who  wont  to  pour 
Their  strong  deliverance  on  th’  Egyptian  shore? 
Wing,  wing  your  course,  a  prostrate  world  to  save, 
Triumphant  squadrons  of  Trafalgar’s  wave. 

“  And  thou,  blest  star  of  Europe’s  darkest  hour, 
Whose  words  were  wisdom  and  whose  counsels  power, 
Whom  Earth  applauded  through  her  peopled  shores ! 
(Alas  !  whom  Earth  too  early  lost  deplores : — ) 
Young  without  follies,  without  rashness  bold, 

And  greatly  poor  amidst  a  nation’s  gold  ! 

In  every  veering  gale  of  faction  true, 

Untarnish’d  Chatham’s  genuine  child,  adieu ! 

Unlike  our  common  suns,  whose  gradual  ray 
Expands  from  twilight  to  intenser  day, 

Thy  blaze  broke  forth  at  once  in  full  meridian  sway. 
0,  proved  in  danger !  not  the  fiercest,  flame 
Of  discord’s  rage  thy  constant  soul  could  tame ; 

Not  when,  far  striding  o’er  thy  palsied  land, 

Gigantic  treason  took  his  bolder  stand ; 

Not  when  wild  zeal,  by  murderous  faction  led, 

On  Wicklow’s  hills  her  grass-green  banner  spread ; 

Or  those  stern  conquerors  of  the  restless  wave 
Defied  the  native  soil  they  wont  to  save. 

Undaunted  patriot !  in  that  dreadful  hour, 

When  pride  and  genius  own  a  sterner  power  ; 

When  the  dimm’d  eyeball,  and  the  struggling  breath, 
And  pain,  and  terror,  mark  advancing  death ; — 

Still  in  that  breast  thy  country  held  her  throne. 


EUROPE. 


Thy  toil,  thy  fear,  thy  prayer,  were  hers  alone, 

Thy  last  faint  effort  hers,  and  hers  thy  parting  groan. 

“  Yes,  from  those  lips  while  fainting  nations  drew 
Hope  ever  strong,  and  courage  ever  new ; — 

Yet,  yet,  I  deem’d  by  that  supporting  hand 
Propp’d  in  her  fall  might  Freedom’s  ruin  stand; 

And  purged  by  fire,  and  stronger  from  the  storm, 
Degraded  justice  rear  her  reverend  form. 

Now,  hope,  adieu ! — adieu  the  generous  care 
To  shield  the  weak,  and  tame  the  proud  in  war ! 

The  golden  chain  of  realms,  when  equal  awe 
Poised  the  strong  balance  of  impartial  law  ; 

When  rival  states  as  federate  sisters  shone, 

Alike,  yet  various,  and  though  many,  one ; 

And,  bright  and  numerous  as  the  spangled  sky, 
Beam’d  each  fair  star  of  Europe’s  galaxy — 

All,  all  are  gone,  and  after-time  shall  trace 
One  boundless  rule,  one  undistinguish’d  race ; 
Twilight  of  worth,  where  nought  remains  to  move 
The  patriot’s  ardour,  or  the  subject’s  love. 

“  Behold,  e’en  now,  while  every  manly  lore 
And  every  muse  forsakes  my  yielding  shore ; 

Faint,  vapid  fruits  of  slavery’s  sickly  clime, 

Each  tinsel  art  succeeds,  and  harlot  rhyme ! 

To  gild  the  vase,  to  bid  the  purple  spread 
In  sightly  foldings  o’er  the  Grecian  bed, 

Their  nrimic  guard  where  sculptured  gryphons  Keep, 
And  Memphian  idols  watch  o’er  beauty’s  sleep ; 

To  rouse  the  slumbering  sparks  of  faint  desire 
With  the  base  tinkling  of  the  Teian  lyre ; 


22 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


While  youth’s  enervate  glance  and  gloating  age 
Hang  o’er  the  mazy  waltz,  or  pageant  stage ; 

Each  wayward  wish  of  sickly  taste  to  please, 

The  nightly  revel  and  the  noon-tide  ease — 

These,  Europe,  are  thy  toils,  thy  trophies  these ! 

“  So,  when  wide-wasting  hail,  or  whelming  rain, 

Have  strew’d  the  bearded  hope  of  golden  grain, 

From  the  wet  furrow,  struggling  to  the  skies, 

The  tall,  rank  weeds  in  barren  splendour  rise ; 

And  strong,  and  towering  o’er  the  mildew’d  ear, 
Uncomely  flowers  and  baneful  herbs  appear ; 

The  swain’s  rich  toils  to  useless  poppies  yield, 

And  Famine  stalks  along  the  purple  field. 

“  And  thou,  the  poet’s  theme,  the  patriot’s  prayer  !— 
Where,  France,  thy  hopes,  thy  gilded  promise,  where  ? 
When  o’er  Montpelier’s  vines,  and  Jura’s  snows, 

All  goodly  bright,  young  freedom’s  planet  rose  ? 

What  boots  it  now  (to  our  destruction  brave), 

How  strong  thine  arm  in  war  ?  a  valiant  slave ! 

What  boots  it  now  that  wide  thine  eagles  sail, 

Fann’d  by  the  flattering  breath  of  conquest’s  gale  ? 
What,  that,  high-piled  within  yon  ample  dome, 

The  blood-bought  treasures  rest  of  Greece  and  Rome  ? 
Scourge  of  the  Highest,  bolt  in  vengeance  hurl’d 
By  Heaven’s  dread  justice  on  a  shrinking  world ! 

Go,  vanquish’d  victor,  bend  thy  proud  helm  down 
Before  thy  sullen  tyrant’s  steely  crown. 

For  him  in  Afric’s  sands,  and  Poland  s  snows, 

Rear’d  by  thy  toil  the  shadowy  laurel  grows ; 

And  rank  in  German  fields  the  harvest  springs 
Of  pageant  councils  and  obsequious  kings. 


EUROPE. 


33 

Such  purple  slaves,  of  glittering  fetters  vain, 

Link’d  the  wide  circuit  of  the  Latian  chain ; 

And  slaves  like  these  shall  every  tyrant  find, 

To  gild  oppression,  and  debase  mankind. 

“  Oh  !  live  there  yet  whose  hardy  souls  and  high, 

Peace  bought  with  shame,  and  tranquil  bonds  defy  ? 

Who,  driven  from  every  shore,  and  lords  in  vain 
Of  the  wide  prison,  of  the  lonely  main, 

Cling  to  their  country’s  rights  with  free-horn  zeal, 

More  strong  from  every  stroke,  and  patient  of  the  steel ! 
Guiltless  of  chains,  to  them  has  Heaven  consign’d 
Th’  intrusted  cause  of  Europe  and  mankind  ! 

Or  hope  we  yet  in  Sweden’s  martial  snows 
That  freedom’s  weary  foot  may  find  repose  ? 

No ; — from  yon  hermit  shade,  yon  cypress  dell, 

Where  faintly  peals  the  distant  matin-bell; 

Where  bigot  kings  and  tyrant  priests  had  shed 
Their  sleepy  venom  o’er  his  dreadful  head ; 

He  wakes,  th’  avenger — hark !  the  hills  around, 

Untamed  Asturia  bids  her  clarion  sound ; 

And  many  an  ancient  rock,  and  fleecy  plain, 

And  many  a  valiant  heart  returns  the  strain : 

Heard  by  that  shore,  where  Calpe’s  armed  steep 
Flings  its  long  shadow  o’er  th’  Herculean  deep, 

And  Lusian  glades,  whose  hoary  poplars  wave 
In  soft,  sad  murmurs  over  Inez’  grave. 

They  bless  the  call  who  dared  the  first  withstand 
The  Moslem  wasters  of  their  bleeding  land, 

Wh*n  firm  in  faith,  and  red  with  slaughter’d  foes, 

Tb  v  spear-encircled  crown,  Asturia,  rose. 


34 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Nor  these  alone ;  as  loud  the  war-notes  swell, 

La  Mancha’s  shepherd  quits  his  cork-built  cell : 
Alhama’s  strength  is  there,  and  those  who  till 
(A  hardy  race  !)  Morena’s  scorched  hill ; 

And  in  rude  arms  through  wide  Gallicia’s  reign, 

The  swarthy  vintage  pours  her  vigorous  train. 

“  Saw  ye  those  tribes  ?  not  theirs  the  plumed  boast, 
The  sightly  trappings  of  a  marshall’ d  host ; 

No  weeping  nations  curse  their  deadly  skill, 

Expert  in  danger,  and  inured  to  kill : — 

But  theirs  the  kindling  eye,  the  strenuous  arm : 

Theirs  the  dark  cheek,  with  patriot  ardour  warm, 
Unblanch’d  by  sluggard  ease,  or  slavish  fear, 

And  proud  and  pure  the  blood  that  mantles  there. 
Theirs  from  the  birth  is  toil; — o’er  granite  steep, 

And  heathy  wild,  to  guard  the  wandering  sheep  ; 

To  urge  the  labouring  mule,  or  bend  the  spear 
’Gainst  the  night-prowling  wolf,  or  felon  bear; 

The  bull’s  hoarse  rage  in  dreadful  sport  to  mock, 

And  meet  with  single  sword  his  bellowing  shock. 

Each  martial  chant  they  know,  each  manly  rhyme, 
Rude  ancient  lays  of  Spain’s  heroic  time ; 

Of  him  in  Xeres’  carnage  fearless  found, 

(His  glittering  brows  with  hostile  spear-heads  bound ;) 
Of  that  chaste  king  whose  hardy  mountain  train 
O’erthrew  the  knightly  race  of  Charlemagne ; 

And  chiefest  him  who  rear’d  his  banner  tall 
(Illustrious  exile  !)  o’er  Valencia’s  wall ; 

Ungraced  by  kings,  whose  Moorish  title  rose 
The  toil-earn’d  homage  of  his  wondering  foes. 


EUROPE. 


35 


“  Yes  ;  every  mouldering  tower  and  haunted  flood, 

And  the  wild  murmurs  of  the  waving  wood ; 

Each  sandy  waste,  and  orange-scented  dell, 

And  red  Buraba’s  field,  and  Lugo,  tell, 

How  their  brave  fathers  fought,  how  thick  the  invaders 
fell. 

“  Oh !  virtue  long  forgot,  or  vainly  tried, 

To  glut  a  bigot’s  zeal  or  tyrant’s  pride ; 

Condemn’d  in  distant  climes  to  bleed  and  die 
’Mid  the  dank  poisons  of  Tlascala’s  sky; 

Or  when  stern  Austria  stretch’d  her  lawless  reign, 

And  spent  in  northern  fights  the  flower  of  Spain ; 

Or  war’s  hoarse  furies  yell’d  on  Ysell’s  shore, 

And  Alva’s  ruffian  sword  was  drunk  with  gore, 

Yet  dared  not  then  Tlascala’s  chiefs  withstand 
The  lofty  daring  of  Castalia’s  band  ; 

And  weeping  France  her  captive  king  deplored, 

And  cursed  the  deathful  point  of  Ebro’s  sword. 

Now,  nerved  with  hope,  their  night  of  slavery  past, 

Each  heart  beats  high  in  freedom’s  buxom  blast ; 

Lo !  conquest  calls,  and  beckoning  from  afar, 

Uplifts  his  laurel  wreath,  and  wTaves  them  on  to  war. 

— Woe  to  th’  usurper  then,  who  dares  defy 
The  sturdy  wrath  of  rustic  loyalty  ! 

Woe  to  the  hireling  bands  foredoom’d  to  feel 
How  strong  in  labour’s  horny  hand  the  steel ! 

Behold  e’en  now,  beneath  yon  Boetic  skies 
Another  Pavia  bids  her  trophies  rise ; 

E’en  now  in  base  disguise  and  friendly  night, 

Their  robber-monarch  speeds  his  secret  flight ; 


i 


86 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  with  new  zeal  the  fiery  Lusians  rear 
(Roused  by  their  neighbour’s  worth)  the  long-neglected 
spear. 

“  So  when  stern  winter  chills  the  April  showers, 

And  iron  frost  forbids  the  timely  flowers ; 

Oh,  deem  not  thou  the  vigorous  herb  below 
Is  crush’d  and  dead  beneath  the  incumbent  snow: 

Such  tardy  suns  shall  wealthier  harvests  bring 
Than  all  the  early  smiles  of  flattering  spring.” 

Sweet  as  the  martial  trumpet’s  silver  swell, 

On  my  charm’d  sense  the  unearthly  accents  fell : 

Me  wonder  held,  and  joy  chastised  by  fear, 

As  one  who  wish’d,  yet  hardly  hoped  to  hear. 

“  Spirit,”  I  cried,  “  dread  teacher,  yet  declare, 

In  that  good  fight,  shall  Albion’s  arm  be  there  ? 

Can  Albion,  brave  and  wise,  and  proud,  refrain 
To  hail  a  kindred  soul,  and  link  her  fate  with  Spain  ? 

Too  long  her  sons,  estranged  from  war  and  toil, 

Have  loathed  the  safety  of  the  sea-girt  isle ; 

And  chid  the  waves  which  pent  their  fire  within, 

As  the  stall’d  war-horse  wooes  the  battle’s  din. 

Oh,  by  this  throbbing  heart,  this  patriot  glow, 

Which,  well  I  feel,  each  English  breast  shall  know, 

Say,  shall  my  country,  roused  from  deadly  sleep, 

Crowd  with  her  hardy  sons  yon  western  steep  ? 

And  shall  once  more  the  star  of  France  grow  pale, 

And  dim  its  beams  in  Roncesvalles’  vale  ? 

Or  shall  foul  sloth  and  timid  doubt  conspire 
To  mar  our  zeal,  and  waste  our  manly  fire  ?” 

Still  as  I  gazed  his  lowering  features  spread, 

High  rose  his  form,  and  darkness  veil’d  his  head ; 


EUROPE. 

Fast  from  his  eyes  the  ruddy  lightning  broke, 

To  Heaven  he  rear’d  his  arm  and  thus  he  spoke : 

“  Woe,  trebly  woe  to  their  slow  zeal  who  bore 
Delusive  comfort  to  Iberia’s  shore ! 

Who  in  mid  conquest,  vaunting,  yet  dismay’d, 

Now  gave  and  now  withdrew  their  laggard  aid  ; 

Who  when  each  bosom  glow’d,  each  heart  beat  high, 
Chill’d  the  pure  stream  of  England’s  energy, 

And  lost  in  courtly  forms  and  blind  delay 
The  loiter’d  hours  of  glory’s  short-lived  day. 

“  0  peerless  island,  generous,  bold,  and  free, 

Lost,  ruin’d  Albion,  Europe  mourns  for  thee  ! 

Hadst  thou  but  known  the  hour  in  mercy  given 
To  stay  thy  doom,  and  ward  the  ire  of  Heaven ; 
Bared  in  the  cause  of  man  thy  warrior  breast, 

And  crush’d  on  yonder  hills  the  approaching  pest, 
Then  had  not  murder  sack’d  thy  smiling  plain, 

And  wealth,  and  worth,  and  wisdom,  all  been  vain  ! 

“  Yet,  yet  awake !  while  fear  and  wonder  wait 
On  the  poised  balance,  trembling  still  with  fate ! 

If  aught  their  worth  can  plead,  in  battle  tried, 

Who  tinged  with  slaughter  Tajo’s  curdling  tide; 
(What  time  base  truce  the  wheels  of  war  could  stay, 
And  the  weak  victor  flung  his  wreath  away;) — 

Or  theirs,  who,  doled  in  scanty  bands  afar, 

Waged  without  hope  the  disproportion^  War, 

And  cheerly  still,  and  patient  of  distress, 

Led  their  forwasted  files  on  numbers  numberless ! 

“  Yes,  through  the  march  of  many  a  weary  day, 
As  yon  dark  column  toils  its  seaward  way; 


88 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


As  bare,  and  shrinking  from  the  inclement  sky, 

The  languid  soldier  bends  him  down  to  die ; 

As  o’er  those  helpless  limbs,  by  murder  gored, 

The  base  pursuer  waves  his  weaker  sword, 

And,  trod  to  earth,  by  trampling  thousands  press’d, 
The  horse-hoof  glances  from  that  mangled  breast ; — 
E’en  in  that  hour  his  hope  to  England  flies, 

And  fame  and  vengeance  fire  his  closing  eyes. 

“  Oh  !  if  such  hope  can  plead,  or  his,  whose  bier 
Drew  from  his  conquering  host  their  latest  tear  ; 
Whose  skill,  whose  matchless  valour  gilded  flight : 
Entomb’d  in  foreign  dust,  a  hasty  soldier’s  rite ; 

Oh !  rouse  thee  yet  to  conquer  and  to  save, 

And  wisdom  guide  the  sword  which  justice  gave  ! 

“  And  yet  the  end  is  not !  from  yonder  towers 
While  one  Saguntum  mocks  the  victor’s  powers : 
While  one  brave  heart  defies  a  servile  chain, 

And  one  true  soldier  wields  a  lance  for  Spain ; 

Trust  not,  vain  tyrant,  though  thy  spoiler  band 
In  tenfold  myriads  darken  half  the  land ; 

(Vast  as  that  power,  against  whose  impious  lord 
Bethulia’s  matron  shook  the  nightly  sword ;) 

Though  ruth  and  fear  thy  woundless  soul  defy, 

And  fatal  genius  fire  thy  martial  eye : 

Yet  trust  not  here  o’er  yielding  realms  to  roam, 

Or  cheaply  bear  a  bloodless  laurel  home. 

“  No !  by  His  viewless  arm  whose  righteous  care 
Defends  the  orphan’s  tear,  the  poor  man’s  prayer ;  • 
Who,  Lord  of  Nature,  o’er  this  changeful  ball 
Decrees  the  rise  of  empires,  and  the  fall : 


EUROPE. 

Wondrous  in  all  His  ways,  unseen,  unknown, 

Who  treads  the  wine-press  of  the  world  alone ; 
And  robed  in  darkness,  and  surrounding  fears, 
Speeds  on  their  destined  road  the  march  of  years  ! 
No  ! — shall  yon  eagle,  from  the  snare  set  free, 
Stoop  to  thy  wrist,  or  cower  his  wing  for  thee  ? 
And  shall  it  tame  despair,  thy  strong  control, 

Or  quench  a  nation’s  still  reviving  soul  ? — 

Go,  bid  the  force  of  countless  bands  conspire 
To  curb  the  wandering  wind,  or  grasp  the  fire ! 
Cast  thy  vain  fetters  on  the  troublous  sea ! 

But  Spain,  the  brave,  the  virtuous,  shall  be  free.” 


39 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  RED  SEA. 

With  heat  o’erlabour’d  and  the  length  of  way, 
On  Ethan’s  beach  the  bands  of  Israel  lay. 

’Twas  silence  all,  the  sparkling  sands  along; 

Save  where  the  locust  trill’d  her  feeble  song, 

Or  blended  soft  in  dfowsy  cadence  fell 
The  wave’s  low  whisper  or  the  camel’s  bell. — 
’Twas  silence  all ! — the  flocks  for  shelter  fly 
Where,  waving  light,  the  acacia  shadows  lie ; 

Or  where,  from  far,  the  flattering  vapours  make 
The  noon-tide  semblance  of  a  misty  lake  : 

While  the  mute  swain,  in  careless  safety  spread, 
With  arms  enfolded,  and  dejected  head, 

Dreams  o’er  his  wondrous  call,  his  lineage  high, 
And,  late  reveal’d,  his  children’s  destiny. — 

For,  not  in  vain,  in  thraldom’s  darkest  hour, 

Had  sped  from  Amram’s  sons  the  word  of  power ; 
Nor  fail’d  the  dreadful  wand,  whose  god-like  sway 
Could  lure  the  locust  from  her  airy  way ; 

With  reptile  war  assail  their  proud  abodes, 

And  mar  the  giant  pomp  of  Egypt’s  Gods. 

4* 


(41) 


42 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Oh  helpless  Gods !  who  nought  avail’d  to  shield 


From  fiery  rain  your  Zoan’s  favour’d  field  !— 

Oh  helpless  Gods !  who  saw  the  curdled  blood 
Taint  the  pure  lotus  of  your  ancient  flood. 

And  four-fold  night  the  wondering  earth  enchain, 
While  Memnon’s  orient  harp  was  heard  in  vain  ! — 
Such  musings  held  the  tribes,  till  now  the  west 
With  milder  influence  on  their  temples  prest ; 

And  that  portentous  cloud  which,  all  the  day, 

Hung  its  dark  curtain  o’er  their  weary  way, 

(A  cloud  by  day,  a  friendly  flame  by  night,) 

Roll’d  back  its  misty  veil,  and  kindled  into  light ! — 
Soft  fell  the  eve : — But,  ere  the  day  was  done, 

Tall  waving  banners  streak’d  the  level  sun ; 

And  wide  and  dark  along  the  hbrizon  red, 

In  sandy  surge  the  rising  desert  spread. — 

“  Mark,  Israel,  mark  !” — On  that  strange  sight  intent, 
In  breathless  terror,  every  eye  was  bent; 

And  busy  faction’s  fast-increasing  hum, 

And  female  voices  shriek,  “  They  come,  they  come !” 
They  come,  they  come  !  in  scintillating  show 
O’er  the  dark  mass  the  brazen  lances  glow ; 

And  sandy  clouds  in  countless  shapes  combine, 

As  deepens  or  extends  the  long  tumultuous  line ; — 
And  fancy’s  keener  glance  ev’n  now  may  trace 
The  threatening  aspects  of  each  mingled  race : 

For  many  a  coal-black  tribe  and  cany  spear, 

The  hireling  guards  of  Misraim’s  throne,  were  there. 
From  distant  Cush  they  troop’d,  a  warrior  train, 


Siwah’s  green  isle  and  Sennaar’s  marly  plain : 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


43 


On  either  wing  their  fiery  coursers  check 
The  parch’d  and  sinewy  sons  of  Amalek  : 

While  close  behind,  inured  to  feast  on  blood, 

Deck’d  in  Behemoth’s  spoils,  the  tall  Shangalla  strode. 
’Mid  blazing  helms  and  bucklers  rough  with  gold 
Saw  ye  how  swift  the  scythed  chariots  roll’d? 

Lo,  these  are  they  whom,  lords  of  Afric’s  fates, 

Old  Thebes  hath  pour’d  through  all  her  hundred  gates. 
Mother  of  armies  ! — How  the  emeralds  glow’d, 

Where,  flush’d  with  power  and  vengeance,  Pharaoh  rode  1 
And  stoled  in  white,  those  brazen  wheels  before, 

Osiris’  ark  his  swarthy  wizards  bore ; 

And  still  responsive  to  the  trumpet’s  cry 
The  priestly  sistrum  murmur’d — Victory  ! — 

Why  swell  these  shouts  that  rend  the  desert’s  gloom  ? 
Whom  come  ye  forth  to  combat  ? — warriors,  whom  ? — 
These  flocks  and  herds — this  faint  and  weary  train — 

Red  from  the  scourge  and  recent  from  the  chain  ? — 

God  of  the  poor,  the  poor  and  friendless  save  ! 

Giver  and  Lord  of  freedom,  help  the  slave  ! — 

North,  south,  and  west,  the  sandy  whirlwinds  fly, 

The  circling  horns  of  Egypt’s  chivalry. 

On  earth’s  last  margin  throng  the  weeping  train : 

Their  cloudy  guide  moves  on  : — u  And  must  we  swim  the 

•  o  y  y 

mam : 

’Mid  the  light  spray  their  snorting  camels  stood, 

Nor  bathed  a  fetlock  in  the  nauseous  flood — 

He  comes — their  leader  comes  ! — the  man  of  God 
O’er  the  wide  waters  lifts  his  mighty  rod, 

And  onward  treads — The  circling  waves  retreat, 

In  hoarse  deep  murmurs,  from  his  holy  feet ; 


44 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  the  chased  surges,  inly  roaring,  show 
The  hard  wet  sand,  and  coral  hills  below. 

With  limbs  that  falter,  and  with  hearts  that  swell, 
Down,  down  they  pass — a  steep  and  slippery  dell —  • 

Around  them  rise,  in  pristine  chaos  hurl’d, 

The  ancient  rocks,  the  secrets  of  the  world ; 

And  flowers  that  blush  beneath  the  ocean  green, 

And  caves,  the  sea-calves’  low-roof ’d  haunt  are  seen. 
Down,  safely  down  the  narrow  pass  they  tread; 

The  beetling  waters  storm  above  their  head : 

While  far  behind  retires  the  sinking  day, 

And  fades  on  Edom’s  hills  its  latest  ray. 

Yet  not  from  Israel  fled  the  friendly  light, 

Or  dark  to  them,  or  cheerless  came  the  night. 

Still  in  their  van,  along  that  dreadful  road, 

Blazed  broad  and  fierce  the  brandish’d  torch  of  God. 

Its  meteor  glare  a  tenfold  lustre  gave 
On  the  long  mirror  of  the  rosy  wave : 

While  its  blest  beams  a  sunlike  heat  supply, 

'Warm  every  cheek,  and  dance  in  every  eye — 

To  them  alone — for  Misraim’s  wizard  train 
Invoke  for  light  their  monster-gods  in  vain : 

Clouds  heap’d  on  clouds  their  struggling  sight  confine, 
And  tenfold  darkness  broods  above  their  line. 

Yet  on  they  fare  by  reckless  vengeance  led, 

And  range  unconscious  through  the  ocean’s  bed : 

Till  midway  now — that  strange  and  fiery  form 
Show’d  his  dread  visage  lightening  through  the  storm  ; 
With  withering  splendour  blasted  all  their  might, 

And  brake  their  chariot-wheels,  and  marr’d  their  coursers 
flight. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


46 


“Fly,  Misraim,  fly!” — The  ravenous  floods  they  see, 
And,  fiercer  than  the  floods,  the  Deity. 

“Fly,  Misraim,  fly!” — From  Edom’s  coral  strand 
Again  the  prophet  stretch’d  his  dreadful  wand : — 
With  one  wild  crash  the  thundering  waters  sweep, 

And  all  is  waves — a  dark  and  lonely  deep — 

Yet  o’er  those  lonely  waves  such  murmurs  past, 

As  mortal  wailing  swell’d  the  nightly  blast : 

And  strange  and  sad  the  whispering  breezes  bore 
The  groans  of  Egypt  to  Arabia’s  shore. 

Oh !  welcome  came  the  morn,  where  Israel  stood 
In  trustless  wonder  by  th’  avenging  flood  ! 

Oh !  welcome  came  the  cheerful  morn  to  show 
The  drifted,  wreck  of  Zoan’s  pride  below ; 

The  mangled  limbs  of  men — the  broken  car — 

A  few  sad  relics  of  a  nation’s  war : 

Alas,  how  few  ! — Then,  soft  as  Elim’s  well, 

The  precious  tears  of  new-born  freedom  fell. 

And  he,  whose  harden’d  heart  alike  had  borne 
The  house  of  bondage  and  th’  oppressor’s  scorn, 

The  stubborn  slave,  by  hope’s  new  beams  subdued, 

In  faltering  accents  sobb’d  his  gratitude — 

Till  kindling  into  warmer  zeal,  around 
The  virgin  timbrel  waked  its  silver  sound  : 

And  in  fierce  joy,  no  more  by  doubt  supprest, 

The  struggling  spirit  throbb’d  in  Miriam’s  breast. 

She,  with  bare  arms,  and  fixing  on  the  sky 
The  dark  transparence  of  her  lucid  eye, 

Pour’d  on  the  winds  of  heaven  her  wild  sweet  harmony 


46 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORK& 


“Where  now,”  she  sang,  “the  tall  Egyptian  spear? 
On’s  sun-like  shield,  and  Zoan’s  chariot,  where  ? 
Above  their  ranks  the  whelming  waters  spread. 
Shout,  Israel,  for  the  Lord  hath  triumphed !” — 
And  every  pause  between  as  Miriam  sang, 

From  tribe  to  tribe  the  martial  thunder  rang, 

And  loud  and  far  their  stormy  chorus  spread — 

“  Shout,  Israel,  for  the  Lord  hath  triumphed !” 


FRAGMENT  OF  A  POEM 

ON 

THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 

The  Sons  of  God  saw  the  daughters  of  men  that  they  were  fair. — Gen.  vi.  2. 

There  came  a  spirit  down  at  eventide 
To  the  city  of  Enoch,  and  the  terraced  height 
Of  Jared’s  palace.  On  his  turret  top 
There  Jared  sate,  the  king,  with  lifted  face 
And  eyes  intent  on  Heaven,  whose  sober  light 
Slept  on  his  ample  forehead,  and  the  locks 
Of  crisped  silver,  beautiful  in  age, 

And  (but  that  pride  had  dimm’d,  and  lust  of  war, 
Those  reverend  features  with  a  darker  shade) 

Of  saintly  seeming, — yet  no  saintly  mood, 

No  heavenward  musing  fix’d  that  steadfast  eye, 
God’s  enemy,  and  tyrant  of  mankind. 

To  whom  that  demon  herald,  from  the  wing 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


47 


Alighting,  spake  :  “  Thus  saith  the  prince  of  air, 
Whose  star  flames  brightest  in  the  van  of  night, 

Whom  gods  and  heroes  worship,  all  who  sweep 
On  sounding  wing  the  arch  of  nether  heaven, 

Or  walk  in  mail  the  earth, — ‘  Thy  prayers  are  heard, 
And  the  rich  fragrance  of  thy  sacrifice 
Hath  not  been  wafted  on  the  winds  in  vain. 

Have  I  not  seen  thy  child,  that  she  is  fair  ? 

Give  me  thine  Ada,  thy  beloved  one, 

And  she  shall  be  my  queen ;  and  from  her  womb 
Shall  giants  spring,  to  rule  the  seed  of  Cain, 

And  sit  on  Jared’s  throne  !’  ”  Then  Jared  rose, 

And  spread  his  hands  before  the  Evil  power, 

And  lifted  up  his  voice  and  laugh’d  for  joy. 

“  Say  to  my  Lord,  Thus  saith  the  ^ing  of  men, — 

Thou  art  my  God, — thy  servant  I,  my  child 
Is  as  thine  handmaid  ! — Nay,  abide  awhile, 

To  taste  the  banquet  of  an  earthly  hall, 

And  leave  behind  thy  blessing  !”  But,  in  mist, 

And  like  a  vision  from  a  waken’d  man, 

The  cloudy  messenger  dissolved  away, 

There  melting  where  the  moonbeam  brightest  fell. 
Then  Jared  turn’d,  and  from  the  turret  top 
Call’d  on  his  daughter — “  Haste,  my  beautiful  ! 

Mine  Ada,  my  beloved  !  bind  with  flowers 
Thy  coal-black  hair,  and  heap  the  sacred  pile 
With  freshest  odours,  and  provoke  the  dance 
With  harp  and  gilded  organ,  for  this  night 
We  have  found  favour  in  immortal  eyes, 

And  the  great  gods  have  bless’d  us.”  Thus  he  spake, 


48 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Nor  spake  unheeded  ;  in  the  ample  hall 
His  daughter  heard,  where,  by  the  cedar  fire, 

Amidst  her  maidens,  o’er  the  ivory  loom 

She  pass’d  the  threads  of  gold.  They  hush’d  the  song 

Which,  wafted  on  the  fragrant  breeze  of  night, 

Swept  o’er  the  city  like  the  ringdove’s  call; 

And  forth  with  all  her  damsels  Ada  came, 

As  mid  the  stars  the  silver  mantled  moon, 

In  stature  thus  and  form  pre-eminent, 

Fairest  of  mortal  maids.  Her  father  saw 
That  perfect  comeliness,  and  his  proud  heart 
'In  purer  bliss  expanded.  Long  he  gazed, 

Nor  wonder  deem’d  that  such  should  win  the  love 
Of  Genius  or  of  Angel ;  such  the  cheek 
Glossy  with  purple  youth,  such  the  large  eye, 

Whose  broad  black  mirror,  through  its  silken  fringe, 
Glisten’d  with  softer  brightness,  as  a  star 
That  nightly  twinkles  o’er  a  mountain  well; 

Such  the  long  locks,  whose  raven  mantle  fell 
Athwart  her  ivory  shoulders,  and  o’erspread 
Down  to  the  heel  her  raiment’s  filmy  fold. 

She,  bending  first  in  meekness,  rose  to  meet 
Her  sire’s  embrace,  than  him  alone  less  tall, 

Whom,  since  primeval  Cain,  the  sons  of  men 
Beheld  unrivall’d :  then,  with  rosy  smile, 

“  What  seeks,  ”  she  said,  “  my  father  ?  Why  remain 
On  thy  lone  tower,  when  from  the  odorous  hearth 
The  sparkles  rise  within,  and  Ada’s  hand 
Hath  deck’d  thy  banquet  ?”  But  the  king  replied, — 
(t  0  fairest,  happiest,  best  of  mortal  maids, 


mmmmmmmmm 


nm 


Mmm i 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


49 


My  prayer  is  heard,  and  from  yon  western  star 
Its  lord  hath  look’d  upon  thee:  as  I  sate 
Watching  the  Heavens,  a  Heavenly  spirit  came 
From  him  whom  chiefest  of  the  host  of  Heaven 
Our  fathers  honour’d, — whom  we  nightly  serve 
(Since  first  Jehovah  scorn’d  such  sacrifice) 

With  frankincense  and  flowers  and  oil  and  corn, 

Our  bloodless  offering ;  him  whose  secret  strength 
Hath  girded  us  to  war,  and  given  the  world 
To  bow  beneath  our  sceptre.  He  hath  seen 
My  child,  that  she  is  fair,  and  from  her  womb 
Shall  giants  spring,  to  rule  the  seed  of  Cain, 

And  sit  on  Jared’s  throne.  What,  silent !  nay, 

Kneel  not  to  me  ;  in  loud  thanksgiving  kneel 
To  him  whose  choice — Now  by  the  glorious  stars 
She  weeps,  she  turns  away  !  Unhappy  child  ! 

And  lingers  yet  thy  mother’s  boding  lore 
So  deeply  in  thy  soul  ?  Curse  on  the  hour 
That  ever  Jared  bore  a  bride  away 
From  western  Eden  !  Have  I  train’d  thy  youth 
Untouch’d  by  mortal  love,  by  mortal  eyes 
Seen  and  adored  far  off,  and  in  the  shrine 
Of  solemn  majesty  reserved,  a  flower 
Of  guarded  paradise,  whom  men  should  praise, 

But  angels  only  gather  ?  Have  I  toil’d 

To  swell  thy  greatness,  till  our  brazen  chain 

From  furthest  Ararat  to  ocean’s  stream 

Hath  bound  the  nations  ?  And  when  all  my  vows 

At  length  are  crown’d,  and  heaven  with  earth  conspires 

To  yield  thee  worship,  dost  thou  then  rebel, 


50 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  hate  thy  happiness  ?  Bethink  thee,  maid, 

Ere  yet  thine  answer,  not  to  be  recall’d, 

Hath  pass’d  those  ivory  gates — bethink  thee  well. 

Who  shall  recount  the  blessings  which  our  gods 
Have  richly  lavish’d  on  the  seed  of  Cain  ? . 

And  who,  if  stung  by  thine,  ingratitude, 

Can  meet  their  vengeance?”  Then  the  maiden  rose, 
And  folding  on  her  breast  her  ivory  arms, 

“  Father,”  she  said,  “thou  deem’st  thy  warrior  gods 
Are  mighty. — One  above  is  mightier : 

Name  Him,  they  tremble.  Kind  thou  call’st  them ; 
Lavish  of  blessings.  Is  that  blessedness 
To  sin  with  them  ?  to  hold  a  hideous  rule, 

Water’d  with  widows’  tears  and  blood  of  men, 

O’er  those  who  curse  our  name  ?  Thy  bands  went  fortls 
And  brought  back  captives  from  the  palmy  side 
Of  far  Euphrates.  One  thou  gavest  me, 

A  woman  for  mine  handmaid :  I  have  heard 
Her  mournful  songs  as,  in  the  strangers’  land, 

She  -wept  and  plied  the  loom.  I  question’d  her  : 

Oh,  what  a  tale  she  told  !  And  are  they  good,— 

To  God  whose  work  these  are !  They  are  not  good,- 
And,  if  not  good,  not  gods.  But  there  is  One, 

I  know,  I  feel,  a  good,  a  Holy  One, 

The  God  who  fills  my  heart,  when,  with  glad  tears, 

I  think  upon  my  mother  ;  when  I  strive 
To  be  like  her,  like  her  to  soothe  thy  cares 
With  perfect  tenderness.  0  father,  king, 

Most  honour’d,  most  beloved,  than  Him  alone 
Who  gives  us  all  less  worshipp’d !  at  thy  feet 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


51 


I  lowly  cast  me  down ;  I  clasp  thy  knees, 

And  in  her  name  who  most  of  womankind 

Thy  soul  hath  bless’d,  by  whose  bed  of  death 

In  short-lived  penitence  thy  sorrow  vow’d 

To  serve  her  God  alone, — forgive  me  now 

If  I  resemble  her  1”  But  in  fierce  wrath 

The  king  replied,— “And  know’st  thou  not,  weak  girl, 

Thy  God  hath  cast  us  off?  hath  scorn’d  of  old 

Our  father’s  offering,  driven  us  from  His  face 

And  mark’d  us  for  destruction  ?  Can  thy  prayer 

Pierce  through  the  curse  of  Cain — thy  duty  please 

That  terrible  One,  whose  angels  are  not  free 

From  sin  before  Him  ?”  Then  the  maiden  spake: 

“  Alas  !  I  know  mine  own  unworthiness, 

Our  hapless  race  I  know.  Yet  God  is  good  ; 

Yet  is  He  merciful ;  the  sire  of  Cain 
Forgiveness  found,  and  Cain  himself,  though  steep’d 
In  brother’s  blood,  had  found  it,  if  his  pride 
Had  not  disdain’d  the  needful  sacrifice, 

And  turn’d  to  other  masters.  One  shall  be. 

In  after  times,  my  mother  wont  to  tell, 

Whose  blood  shall  help  the  guilty.  When  my  soul 
Is  sick  to  death,  this  comfort  lingers  here, 

This  hope  survives  within  me ;  for  His  sake, 

Whose  name  I  know  not,  God  will  hear  my  prayer, 

And  though  He  slay  me,  I  will  trust  in  Him.” 

Here  Ada  ceased,  for  from  her  father’s  eye 

The  fire  flash’d  fast,  and  on  his  curling  lip 

The  white  foam  trembled.  “  Gone,”  he  cried,  “  all  gone  J 

My  heart’s  desire,  the  labour  of  my  youth, 


\ 


LIBRARY  _ 

UNIVERSITY  0R  1U1N01S 


52 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Mine  age’s  solace  gone !  Degenerate  child, 

Enemy  of  our  gods,  chief  enemy 

To  thine  own  glory !  What  forbids  my  foot 

To  spurn  thy  life  out,  or  this  dreadful  hand 

To  cast  thee  from  the  tower  a  sacrifice 

To  those  whom  thou  hast  scorn’d?  Accursed  be  thou 

Of  Him  thou  seek’st  in  vain  !  accursed  He, 

Whose  hated  worship  hath  enticed  thy  feet 
From  the  bright  altars  of  the  host  of  Heaven  ! 

I  curse  Him — mark  me  well — I  curse  Him,  Ada ! 
And,  lo  !  He  smiteth  not !”  But  Ada  bow’d 
Her  head  to  earth,  and  hid  her  face,  and  wept 
In  agony  of  prayer.  “Yea,”  cried  the  king, 

“  Yea,  let  Him  smite  me  now,  for  what  hath  life 
Left  worth  the  keeping  ?  Yet,  I  thank  the  stars, 
Vengeance  may  yet  be  mine !  Look  up  and  hear 
Thy  monarch,  not  thy  father !  Till  this  hour 
I  have  spared  thy  mother’s  people;  they  have  pray’d 
And  hymn’d,  and  have  blasphemed  the  prince  of  air ; 
And,  as  thou  saidest,  they  have  cursed  my  reign  ; 
And  I  have  spared  them !  But  no  longer — no  ! 
Thyself  hast  lit  the  fire,  nor  Lucifer 
Shall  longer  tax  my  sword  for  tardy  zeal, 

And  thou  shalt  live  to  see  it !”  From  his  path 
He  spurn’d  his  prostrate  child,  and  groaning,  wrapt 
The  mantle  round  his  face,  and  pass’d  away 
Unheard  of  her  whom,  stretch’d  in  seeming  death, 
Her  maidens  tended.  Oh,  that,  in  this  hour, 

Her  soul  had  fled  indeed,  nor  -waked  again 
To  keener  suffering !  Yet  shall  man  refuse 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


63 


The  bitter  cup  whose  dregs  are  blessedness  ? 

Or  shall  we  hate  the  friendly  hand  which  guides 
The  nobler  triumph  through  severer  woe  ? 

Thus  Ada  murmur’d,  thus  within  her  spake 
(In  answer  to  such  impious  murmurings) 

A  spirit  not  her  own.  Stretch’d  on  her  couch, 

She  silent  lay.  The  maidens  had  retired 
Observant  of  her  rest.  Her  nurse  alone, 

Shaking  and  muttering  with  a  parent’s  fear, 

Knelt  by  her  side,  and  watch’d  her  painful  breath, 

And  the  wild  horror  of  her  fixed  eye, 

And  long’d  to  hear  her  voice.  “  Peninnah  !  thou  ! 

My  mother,  is  it  thou?”  the  princess  cried ; 

And  that  old  woman  kiss’d  her  feet  and  wept 
In  rapturous  fondness.  “  Oh  my  child  !  my  child  ! 

The  blessing  of  thy  mother’s  mighty  God 
Rest  on  thine  innocent  head,  and  ’quite  thy  love 
For  those  kind  accents.  All,  my  lovely  one, 

All  may  be  well.  Thy  father  doats  on  thee ; 

And,  when  his  wrath  is  spent,  his  love,  be  sure, 

Will  grant  thee  all  thy  will.  Oh  lamps  of  Heaven  ! 
Can  ye  behold  her  thus  nor  pity  her ! 

Is  this  your  love,  ye  gods  !” — “Name  not  the  gods,” 
The  princess  cried,  “  the  wretched  gods  of  Cain  ; 

My  mother’s  God  be  mine ;  they  are  no  gods 
Whose  fleshly  fancy  dotes  on  mortal  clay, 

Whose  love  is  ruin  !  Thinkest  thou  this  night 
I  have  first  withstood  their  tempting  ?  first  have  pioved 
Their  utter  weakness?” — “  Have  the  angels,  then, 
Visited  thee  of  old?”  the  nurse  inquired, 


64 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


“Or  hath  thy  father  told  thee  of  their  love 
And  thou  hast  kept  it  from  me  ?”  As  she  spake 
A  bright  and  bitter  glance  of  lofty  scorn 
Shot  from  the  virgin’s  eyes.  A  mantling  blush 
Of  hallow’d  courage  darken’d  on  her  cheek ; 

She  waved  her  arm  as  one  whose  kingly  state 
Repels  intrusion  from  his  privacy, 

And  answer’d,  with  a  calm  hut  painful  smile : 

“  They  are  beside  us  now  1  Nay,  quake  not  thus, 

I  fear  them  not ;  yet  they  are  terrible — 

But  they  are  past,  resist  them  and  they  flee, 

And  all  is  peace  again :  yet  have  I  groan’d 
Beneath  such  visitation,  till  my  faith 
In  Him  I  serve  hath  almost  pass’d  away.” 

With  that  she  rose,  and,  wrapt  in  silent  thought, 
Gazed  through  the  portal  long, — then  paced  awhile 
The  marble  pavement,  now  from  side  to  side 
Tossing  her  restless  arms,  now  clasping  close 
Her  hands  in  supplication,  lifting  now 
Her  eloquent  eyes  to  Heaven, — then  sought  again 
Her  lowly  couch,  and,  by  the  nurse’s  side, 

Resumed  the  wondrous  tale.  “Oh  friend,”  she  cried, 
“And  only  mother  now,  yon  silver  moon 
Has  twenty  times  renew’d  her  course  in  Heaven, 
Since,  as  my  bosom  o’er  its  girlish  zone 
With  painful  tightness  rose,  I  bade  thee  change 
Th’  imprisoning  cincture.  Canst  thou  yet  recall 
Thy  playful  words  of  praise, — thy  prophecies 
Of  one  to  loose  ere  long  that  golden  clasp, 

A  royal  bridegroom  ?  Strange  to  me,  thy  words 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Sunk  in  my  soul,  and  busy  fancy  strove 
To  picture  forth  that  unknown  visitant, 

His  form  and  bearing.  Musing  thus,  and  lost 
In  troubled  contemplation,  o’er  my  soul 
A  heavy  slumber  fell :  I  sank  not  down  ; 

I  saw,  I  heard,  I  moved ;  the  spell  was  laid 
Within  me,  and  from  forth  my  secret  heart 
A  stranger’s  accents  came :  ‘  Oh  !  blessed  maid  ! 
Most  beautiful,  most  honour’d  !  not  for  thee 
Be  mortal  marriage,  nor  the  feeble  love 
Of  those  whose  beauty  is  a  mortal  dream, 

Whose  age  a  shadow.  What  is  man,  whose  day, 
In  the  poor  circuit  of  a  thousand  years, 

Reverts  again  to  dust  ?  Thee,  maiden  !  thee 
The  gods  have  seen:  the  never-dying  stars 
Gaze  on  thy  loveliness,  and  thou  shalt  reign 
A  new  Astarte.  Bind  thy  flowing  hair, 

Brace  on  thy  sandals,  seek  the  myrtle  grove 
West  of  the  city,  and  the  cavern  well, 

Whose  clear  black  waters  from  their  silent  spring 
Ripple  with  ceaseless  stir :  thy  lover  there 
Waits  thee  in  secret,  and  thy  soul  shall  learn 
The  raptures  of  a  god  !  But  cast  away 
That  peevish  bauble  which  thy  mother  gave, 

Her  hated  talisman.’  That  word  recall’d 
My  straggling  senses,  and  her  dying  prayer 
Pass’d  through  my  soul  like  fire ;  the  tempter  fell 
Abash’d  before  it,  and  a  living  voice 
Of  most  true  consolation  o’er  me  came, 

4  Nor  love  nor  fear  them,  Ada ;  love  not  them 


■■■■■■■ 


66  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Who  hate  thy  mother’s  memory ;  fear  not  them 
Who  fear  thy  mother’s  God ;  for  this  she  gave, 
Prophetic  of  this  hour,  that  graven  gold, 

Which  bears  the  title  of  the  Eternal  One, 

And  binds  thee  to  His  service  :  guard  it  well, 

And  guard  the  faith  it  teaches ;  safer  so 
Than  girt  around  by  brazen  walls,  and  gates 
Of  seven-fold  cedar.’  Since  that  hour,  my  heart 
Hath  kept  its  covenant,  nor  shrunk  beneath 
The  spirits  of  evil ;  yet,  not  so  repell’d, 

They  watch  me  in  my  walks,  spy  out  my  ways, 

And  still  with  nightly  whispers  vex  my  soul, 

To  seek  the  myrtle  thicket.  Bolder  now, 

They  speak  of  duty — of  a  father’s  will, 

Now  first  unkind — a  father’s  kingly  power, 
Tremendous  when  opposed.  My  God,  they  say, 

Bids  me  revere  my  parent :  will  He  guard 
A  rebel  daughter  ?  Wiser  to  comply, 

Ere  force  compels  me  to  my  happiness, 

And  to  my  lover  yield  that  sacrifice 

Which  else  my  foe  may  seize.  Oh  God  !  great  God  ! 

Of  whom  I  am,  and  whom  I  serve  alone, 

Be  Thou  my  strength  in  weakness — Thou  my  guide, 
And  save  me  from  this  hour !”  Thus,  as  she  spake, 
With  naked  feet  and  silent,  in  the  cloud 
Of  a  long  mantle  wrapt,  as  one  who  shuns 
The  busy  eyes  and  babbling  tongues  of  men, 

A  warrior  enter’d ;  o’er  his  helm 

Ths  casque  was  drawn  *  *  * 

v  *  *  *  *  * 


— — 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MORTE  D’ARTHUR. 

A  FRAGMENT. 


CANTO  L 

It  was  the  blessed  morn  of  Whitsuntide, 

And  Carduel  echoed  to  the  festive  call, 

As  his  shrill  task  the  clear-voiced  herald  plied, 
And  shriller  trumpet  shook  the  castle  wall. 


Ye  whom  the  world  has  wrong’d,  whom  men  despise, 
Who  sadly  wander  through  this  vale  of  tears, 

And  lift  in  silent  dread  your  wistful  eyes 
O’er  the  bleak  wilderness  of  future  years, 

Where  from  the  storm  no  sheltering  bourn  appears : 
Whom  genius,  moody  guide,  has  led  astray, 

And  pride  has  mock’d,  and  want  with  chilling  fears, 
Quench’d  of  each  youthful  hope  the  timid  ray: 

Yet  envy  not  the  great,  yet  envy  not  the  gay ! 

ii. 

Say,  can  the  silken  bed  refreshment  bring, 

When  from  the  restless  spirit  sleep  retires  ? 

Or,  the  sharp  fever  of  the  serpent’s  sting, 

Pains  it  less  shrewdly  for  his  burnish’d  spires  ? 

Oh,  worthless  is  the  bliss  the  world  admires, 


68 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  helpless  whom  the  vulgar  mightiest  deem : 

Tasteless  fruition,  impotent  desires, 

Pomp,  pleasure,  pride,  how  valueless  ye  seem 
When  the  poor  soul  awakes,  and  finds  its  life  a  dream  ! 

hi. 

And  thou,  if  such  may  ponder  o’er  my  song, 

Whose  light  heart  bounds  to  pleasure’s  minstrelsy ; 
To  whom  the  faery  realms  of  love  belong ; 

And  the  gay  motes  of  young  prosperity 
Dance  in  thy  sunshine  and  obscure  thine  eye ; 
Suspect  of  earthly  good  the  gilded  snare, 

When  sorrow  wreathes  her  brow  with  revelry, 

And  friendship’s  hollow  smiles  thy  wreck  prepare ! 
Alas !  that  demon  forms  should  boast  a  mask  so  fair ! 

IV. 

See’st  thou  yon  flutterer  in  the  summer  sky, 

Wild  as  thy  glance,  and  graceful  as  thy  form  ? 

Yet,  lady,  know  yon  beauteous  butterfly 
Is  parent  of  the  loathsome  canker-worm, 

Whose  restless  tooth,  worse  than  December’s  storm, 
Shall  mar  thy  woodbine  bower  with  greedy  rage. — 

Fair  was  her  face  as  thine,  her  heart  as  warm, 

Whose  antique  story  marks  my  simple  page ; 

Yet  luckless  youth  was  hers,  and  sorrowful  old  age 

V. 

’Twas  merry  in  the  streets  of  Carduel, 

When  Pentecost  renew’d  her  festive  call, 

And  the  loud  trumpet’s  clang  and  louder  bell 
The  moss-grown  abbey  shook  and  banner’d  wall ; 

And  still,  from  bower  to  mass,  from  mass  to  hall, 


\ 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


69 


A  sea  of  heads  throughout  the  city  flow’d  ; 

And,  robed  in  fur,  in  purple,  and  in  pall, 

Of  knights  and  dames  the  gaudy  pageant  yode, 

And  conquering  Arthur  last,  and  young  Ganora  rode. 

VI. 

Still  as  they  pass’d,  from  many  a  scaffold  high, 

And  window-lattice  scatter’d  roses  flew, 

And  maidens,  leaning  from  the  balcony, 

Bent  their  white  necks  the  stranger  bride  to  view, 
Whom  that  same  morn,  or  e’er  the  sparkling  dew 
Had  from  his  city’s  herb-strewn  pavement  fled, 

A  village  maid,  who  rank  nor  splendour  knew, 

To  Mary’s  aisle  the  conqueror’s  hand  had  led, 

To  deck  her  monarch’s  throne,  to  bless  her  monarch’s  bed. 

yi  r. 

Who  then  was  joyful  but  the  Logrian  king? 

Not  that  his  hand  a  five-fold  sceptre  bore ; 

Not  that  the  Scandian  raven’s  robber  wing 
Stoop’d  to  his  dragon  banner,  and  the  shore 
Of  peopled  Gallia,  and  where  ocean  hoar 
Girds  with  his  silver  ring  the  island  green 
Of  saints  and  heroes ;  not  that  paynim  gore 
Clung  to  his  blade,  and,  first  in  danger  seen, 

In  many  a  forward  fight  his  golden  shield  had  been. 

VIII. 

Nor  warrior  fame  it  was,  nor  kingly  state 

That  swell’d  his  heart,  though  in  that  thoughtful  eye 
And  brow  that  might  not  even,  in  mirth,  abate 
Its  regal  care  and  wonted  majesty, 

Unlike  to  love,  a  something  seem’d  to  lie ; 


60 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  love’s  ascendant  planet  ruled  the  hour. 

And  as  he  gazed  with  lover’s  ecstasy, 

And  blended  pride  upon  that  beauteous  flower, 

Could  fame,  could  empire  vie  with  such  a  paramour ! 

IX. 

For  many  a  melting  eye  of  deepest  blue, 

And  many  a  form  of  goodliest  mould  were  there, 
And  ivory  necks  and  lips  of  coral  hue, 

And  many  an  auburn  braid  of  glossy  hair. 

But  ill  might  all  those  gorgeous  dames  compare 
With  her  in  flowers  and  bridal  white  array’d : 

Was  none  so  stately  form  nor  face  so  fair 
As  hers,  whose  eyes,  as  mournful  or  afraid, 

Were  big  with  heavy  tears,  the  trembling  village  maid 

X. 

Yet  whoso  list  her  dark  and  lucid  eye, 

And  the  pure  witness  of  her  cheek  to  read, 

Might  written  mark  in  nature’s  registry, 

That  this  fair  rustic  was  not  such  indeed, 

But  high-born  offspring  of  some  ancient  seed. 

And,  sooth,  she  was  the  heir  of  Carmelide, 

And  old  Ladugan’s  blood,  whose  daring  deed 
With  rebel  gore  Lancastrian  meadows  dyed, 

Or  e’er  that  Uther’s  son  his  mightier  aid  supplied. 

XI. 

But  when  the  murderous  Ryence’  archer  band 
With  broad  destruction  swept  the  Ribble  side, 
Ladugan  forth  from  that  devoted  land 
His  daughter  sent,  a  smiling  babe,  to  bide 
Where  Derwent’s  lonely  mirror  dark  and  wide 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


61 


Reflects  the  dappled  heaven  and  purple  steep, 
Unhonour’d  there,  unown’d  and  undescried, 

Till  fate  compell’d  her  from  her  tended  sheep, 

In  Arthur’s  kingly  bower  to  wear  a  crown  and  weep. 

XII. 

There  are  who  teach  such  crystal  drops  express 
(So  near  is  each  extreme  of  joy  or  woe) 

Alike,  the  burst  of  painful  happiness, 

And  the  still  smart  of  misery’s  inward  throe. 

From  man’s  perturbed  soul  alike  they  flow, 

Where  bitter  doubt  and  recollected  sorrow 

Blend  with  the  cup  of  bliss,  and  none  can  know 
From  human  grief  how  short  a  space  to  borrow, 

Or  how  the  fairest  eve  may  bring  the  darkest  morrow 

XIII. 

Say,  fared  it  thus  with  young  Ganora’s  heart  ? 

Did  hope,  did  Hymen  call  the  rapturous  tear  ? 

Or  mourn’d  perchance  the  village  maid  to  part 
From  all  the  humble  joys  her  heart  held  dear  ? 

And,  turning  from  that  kingly  front  severe, 

Roam’d  her  sad  memory  o’er  each  milder  grace 
Of  him  her  earliest  love,  the  forestere  ? 

Ah,  lost  for  ever  now !  yet  sweet  to  trace 

The  silver-studded  horn,  green  garb,  and  beardless  face. 

xir. 

The  chanted  anthem’s  heaven-ascending  sound 
Her  spirit  moved  not  with  its  sacred  well ; 

And,  all  in  vain,  for  twenty  steeples  round 
Crash’d  with  sonorous  din  the  festive  bell ; 

Upon  her  tranced  ear  in  vain  it  fell ! 

6 


62 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


As  little  mark’d  she,  that  the  monarch’s  tongue 
Would  oft  of  love  in  courtly  whisper  tell ; 

While  from  the  castle  bridge  a  minstrel  throng 
To  many  a  gilded  harp  attuned  the  nuptial  song. 

XV. 

“  Ah  see,”  ’twas  thus  began  the  lovely  lay, 

“  The  warrior-god  hath  laid  his  armour  by, 

And  doft  his  deadly  sword,  awhile  to  play 
In  the  dark  radiance  of  Dione’s  eye ; 

Snared  in  her  raven  locks  behold  him  lie, 

And  on  her  lap  his  dreadful  head  reclined ; 

May  every  knight  such  silken  fetters  try, 

Such  mutual  bands  may  every  lady  bind  ! 

How  blest  the  soldier’s  life  if  love  were  always  kind ! 

XVI. 

“  Oh,  Goddess  of  the  soul-entrancing  zone, 

Look  down  and  mark  a  fairer  Venus  here, 

Call’d  from  her  hamlet  to  an  empire’s  throne, 

As  meet  of  womankind  the  crown  to  wear, 

And  of  a  nobler  Mars  the  consort  dear ! 

Oh,  fairest,  mildest,  best,  by  heaven  design’d 
With  soothing  smiles  his  kingly  toil  to  cheer, 

Still  may  thy  dulcet  chain  the  conqueror  bind. 

Sure  earth  itself  were  heaven  if  love  were  always  kind!” 

XVII. 

So  sang  they  till  the  gaudy  train  had  past 
The  sullen  entrance  of  that  ancient  tower, 

Which  o’er  the  trembling  wave  its  shadow  cast, 

Grim  monument  of  Rome’s  departed  power. 

That  same,  in  Albion’s  tributary  hour, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


f 

The  Latian  lords  of  earth  had  edified, 

Which  all  unharm’d  in  many  a  martial  stour, 

Might  endless  as  the  steadfast  hills  abide, 

Or  as  the  eternal  stream  that  crept  its  base  beside. 

xvrir. 

And  Arthur  here  had  fix’d  his  kingly  see, 

And  hither  had  he  borne  his  destined  bride, 

Amid  those  civil  storms  secure  to  be 

That  rock’d  the  troublous  land  on  every  side. 

For  not  the  fell  balista,  bristling  wide 
With  barbed  death,  or  whirling  rocks  afar, 

Nor  aught  by  that  Trinacrian  artist  tried, 

To  save  his  leaguer’d  town  such  strength  could  mar. 
How  easy  then  to  mock  the  barbarous  Saxon  war ! 

XIX. 

Austere  and  stern,  a  warrior  front  it  wore, 

The  long  dim  entrance  to  that  palace  pile, 

And  crisped  moss,  and  lichen  ever  hoar, 

Trail’d  their  moist  tresses  in  the  portal  aisle : 

But,  past  the  gate,  like  some  rude  veteran’s  smile 
Kindly,  though  dark,  a  milder  grace  it  show’d ; 

And  music  shook  the  courts,  and  all  the  while 
Fair  stripling  youths  along  the  steepy  road, 

Fresh  flowers  before  their  feet  and  myrtle  branchc 
strew’d. 

XX. 

By  them  they  pass,  and  now  the  giant  hall 
Bids  to  the  train  its  oaken  valves  unfold, 

From  whose  high  rafter’d  roof  and  archdd  wall, 

Five  hundred  pennons,  prize  of  war,  unroll’d, 

In  various  silk  display’d  and  waving  gold, 


C4  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

The  armories  of  many  a  conquer’d  knight ; 

And  some  of  Arthur’s  sword  the  fortune  told, 

Of  Gawain  some,  but  most  were  redde  aright,  ^ 

“  These  Lancelot  du  Lake  achieved  in  open  fight. 

XXI. 

Here  might  I  sing  (what  many  a  bard  has  sung) 

Each  gorgeous  usage  of  that  kingly  hall ; 

How  harp,  and  voice,  and  clashing  goblet  rung, 

Of  page  and  herald,  bard  and  seneschal. 

But  antique  times  were  rude  and  homely  all ; 

And  ill  might  Arthur’s  nuptial  banquet  vie 

With  theirs  who  nature’s  kindly  fruits  forestall, 

And  brave  the  seas  for  frantic  gluttony, 

And  every  various  bane  of  every  clime  supply. 

XXII. 

Nor  cared  the  king,  a  soldier  tried  and  true, 

For  such  vain  pampering  of  impure  delight : 

His  toys,  his  gauds,  were  all  of  manlier  hue,  # 

Swift  steeds,  keen  dogs,  sharp  swords,  and  armour  bright; 
Yet  wanted  nought  that  well  became  a  knight 
Of  seemly  pomp  ;  the  floor  with  rushes  green, 

And  smooth  bright  board  with  plenteous  viands  dight, 
That  scant  the  load  might  bear,  though  well  be  seen 
With  ribs  and  rafters  strong,  and  ponderous  oak  between, 

XXIII. 

And  shame  it  were  to  pass  the  warrior  state 
Of  those,  the  favour’d  few,  whose  table  round, 

Fast  by  their  sovereign  and  his  beauteous  mate, 

Apart  from  all  the  subject  train,  was  crown  d, 

Whose  manly  locks  with  laurel  wreaths  were  bound, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


65 


And  ermine  wrapt  their  limbs ;  yet  on  the  wall 

Their  helms,  and  spears,  and  painted  shields  were  found, 
And  mails,  and  gilded  greaves,  at  danger’s  call, 

Aye  prompt  for  needful  use  whatever  chance  might  fall. 

XXIV. 

And  bounded  high  the  monarch’s  heart  of  pride, 

Who  gazed  exulting  on  that  noble  crew ; 

And  leaning  to  his  silent  spouse,  he  cried, 

“  Seest  thou,  Ganore,  thy  band  of  liegemen  true  ? 

Lo,  these  are  they  whose  fame  the  liquid  blue 
Of  upper  air  transcends  ;  nor  lives  there  one 
Of  all  who  gaze  on  Phoebus’  golden  hue, 

From  earth’s  cold  circle  to  the  burning  zone, 

To  whom  of  Arthur’s  knights  the  toil  remains  unknown. 

XXV. 

(( Yes,  mark  him  well,  the  chief  whose  auburn  hair 
So  crisply  curls  above  his  hazel  eye, 

And  parted  leaves  the  manly  forehead  bare : 

That  same  is  Gawain,  flower  of  courtesy ; 

Yet  few  with  him  in  listed  field  may  vie. 

Gahriet  the  next,  in  blood  the  next  and  might; 

And  Carados,  whose  lady’s  loyalty 
The  mantle  gain’d  and  horn  of  silver  bright ; 

And  stout  Sir  Kay,  Btout  heart,  but  not  so  strong  in  fight. 

XXVI. 

“  But  he,  the  best  of  all  and  bravest  peer 
That  drinks  this  hour  the  crystal  air  of  day ; 

The  most  renowned  and  to  me  most  dear, 

As  ill  befalls,  is  journey’d  far  away, 

A  strange  and  stern  adventure  to  essay, 


66 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Whom  Heaven  defend,  and  to  his  friend  s  embrace 
Again  resistless  Lancelot  convey !” 

So  spake  the  king  ;  and  more,  his  words  to  grace, 

An  unsuspected  tear  stole  down  his  manly  face. 

XXVII. 

To  whom  with  faltering  voice  Ganora  spake : 

“  Oh,  happy  knights  of  such  a  king,”  she  said, 

“  And  happy  king,  for  whose  revered  sake 

So  valiant  knights  unsheathe  the  deadly  blade  ! 

And  worthless  I,  an  untaught  village  maid, 

In  Arthur’s  court  to  fill  the  envied  throne, 

Who  meeter  far,  in  russet  weeds  array’d,  . 

Had  fed  my  flock  on  Skiddaw’s  summit  lone, 
Unknowing  of  mankind,  and  by  mankind  unknown. 

XXVIII. 

The  monarch  smiled,  a  proud  protecting  smile, 

That  spoke  her  lovelier  for  her  lowliness ; 

And,  bending  from  his  loftier  seat  the  while, 

Hung  o’er  her  heaving  form,  yet  ill  could  guess 
What  terror  strove  within,  what  deep  distress 
Rose  in  her  painful  throat,  while  struggling  there, 

A  stronger  awe  the  sob  would  fain  repress ; 

Nor  other  cause  he  sought  than  maiden  fear 
To  chill  the  shrinking  hand,  to  call  the  trickling  tear 


XXIX. 


“  Mine  own  Ganore  !”  he  said,  “  my  gentle  maid  ! 

Oh,  deem  not  of  thyself  unworthily  ; 

By  charms  like  thine  a  king  were  well  repaid, 
Who  yielded  up  for  love  his  royalty. 

And  heroes  old,  and  they  that  rule  the  sky, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


67 


Have  sought  in  lowly  cot,  as  fables  tell, 

A  purer  love  than  gems  or  gold  can  buy, 

And  beauty  oftener  found  in  mountain  cell, 

Than  with  the  lofty  dames  in  regal  court  who  dwell. 

XXX. 

u  Go,  ask  the  noblest  of  my  knightly  power, 

Ask  of  Sir  Lancelot,  what  secret  pain 
So  oft  hath  drawn  him  forth  at  twilight  hour. 

To  woods  and  wilds,  his  absent  love  to  plain, 

Whom  many  a  courtly  fair  hath  sought  in  vain?  . 
Oh,  he  will  tell  thee  that  the  greenwood  tree 
Recalls  the  hour  of  happier  youth  again, 

When  blithe  he  wont  to  range  the  forest  free, 

With  her,  his  earliest  choice,  the  maid  of  low  degree.” 

XXXI. 

He  ceased ;  to  whom  the  maiden  nought  replied, 

But  in  the  patience  of  her  misery 
Possess’d  her  secret  soul,  and  inly  sigh’d. 

“  Why  ponder  thus  on  what  no  more  may  be  ? 

Why  think  on  him  who  never  thinks  on  thee ! 

For  now  seven  autumns  have  with  changing  hue 
Embrown’d  the  verdure  of  our  trysting-tree, 

Since  that  shrill  horn  the  wonted  signal  blew, 

Or  that  swift  foot  was  heard  brushing  the  twilight  dew 

XXXII. 

“  Then  rouse  thee  yet  thy  silent  griefs  to  bear, 

And  rein  the  troublous  thoughts  so  far  that  rove  : 
Faithless  or  dead,  he  little  needs  thy  care  j 
And  ill  such  thoughts  a  wedded  wife  behove  j 
Then  turn  to  him  who  claims  thy  plighted  love ; 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Nor  weeping  thus,  thine  inward  shame  confess, 

Whom  knightly  worth  nor  regal  state  may  move ; 

Nor  he  whom  Albion’s  sister-islands  bless, 

Can  tame  thy  stubborn  grief  and  minion  frowardness  !” 

XXXIII. 

So  sadly  pass’d  the  festal  eve  away, 

While  at  each  courteous  word  her  bosom  bled, 

And  every  glance  her  heart  could  ill  repay, 

Through  the  chill  conscience  like  a  dagger  sped. 

Yet  still  with  secret  prayer  her  soul  she  fed, 

And  burst  with  holier  thoughts  each  inward  snare, 
Which  in  that  wither’d  heart,  where  hope  was  dead, 
Yet  hopeless  passion  wove,  and  darkest  there, 

The  dreadful  whisper  crept  of  comfortless  despair. 

XXXIT. 

And  softer  seem’d  her  silent  grief  to  flow, 

And  sweeter  far  her  unrestrained  tear, 

While  soft  and  sweet  a  tale  of  tender  woe 
Iolo  wove,  the  bard,  whose  harp  to  hear 
Even  the  rude  warder,  leaning  on  his  spear, 

Press’d  to  the  further  door ;  and  squire,  and  knight, 
And  lingering  pages  on  those  accents  dear, 

Paused  round  the  unserved  board  ;  and  ladies  bright, 
Breathless,  with  lips  unclosed,  drank  in  the  wild  delight 

XXXV. 

A  strange  and  melancholy  tale  it  was, 

“  Of  one  who,  for  a  tyrant  uncle’s  right, 

Lay  bleeding,  breathless,  on  the  crimson  grass, 

All  vainly  victor  in  the  unequal  fight ; 

And  who  is  she  whose  hands  of  lily  white, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


69 


Too  beauteous  leech !  his  festering  hurt  would  bind  ! 

Ah,  fly  thee,  princess,  from  the  Cornish  knight, 
Who,  now  preserved,  a  sorer  fate  must  find, 


By  guilt,  and  late  remorse,  and  hopeless  passion  pined. 


XXXVI. 


“  Yet  pleasant  was  the  dawn  of  early  love, 

And  sweet  the  faery  bowl  of  magic  power ! 

But  following  mists  the  early  heat  reprove, 

And  April  frosts  abash  the  timid  flower. 

Behold  him  now  at  midnight’s  harmful  hour, 

His  pale  cheek  pillow’d  on  his  trembling  knees, 

Whose  frantic  brain  rejects  the  sheltering  bower, 
Whose  parched  bosom  wooes  the  autumnal  breeze, 

And  whose  poor  broken  heart  sighs  with  the  sighing  trees. 


XXXVII. 


“Ah,  sweet  it  seem’d  when,  through  the  livelong  day, 
’Mid  tall  Ierne’s  forest  dark  and  wide, 

In  hunter  garb  he  took  his  tireless  way, 

Love  in  his  breast  and  Yseult  at  his  side! 

Gone  are  those  days  !  Oh,  Yseult,  oft  he  cried, 
Relentless  Yseult,  beauteous  enemy  ! 

May  happier  fate  thy  gentle  life  betide, 

Nor  ever  may’st  thou  waste  a  tear  on  me, 

Nor  guess  the  nameless  tomb  of  him  who  pined  for  thee ! 


XXXVIII. 


“  And  Lancelot !  (for,  Lordings,  well  ye  know 
How  Tristan  aye  to  Lancelot  was  dear) 

Sir  Lancelot !  he  sung,  of  all  below 

The  best,  the  bravest,  and  the  worthiest  peer ! 
To  thee  my  helm  I  leave,  and  shield  and  spear, 


t 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


That  not  from  harm  their  wretched  lord  might  save, 
Yet,  noblest  friend,  my  last  petition  hear, 

By  thine  own  secret  love  a  boon  I  crave, 

Defend  mine  Yseult’s  fame  when  I  am  laid  in  grave.’ ’ 

XXXIX. 

Here  ceased  the  harp ;  but  o’er  its  trembling  chord 
In  silent  grief  the  minstrel’s  sorrow  fell, 

And  silence  hush’d  the  song  where  all  deplored 
The  recent  woes  of  knight  who  loved  so  well, 

And  most  had  known  the  heir  of  Lionelle ; 

And  sweet  it  seem’d  for  others’  woe  to  weep 
To  her  whose  secret  anguish  none  could  tell ; 

Yet  nigh  such  strain  could  lull  her  pangs  to  sleep ; 
And  now  the  star  of  eve  beam’d  o’er  the  twilight  deep 

XL. 

When,  in  that  sober  light  and  sadness  still, 

Arose  a  madd’ning  hubbub  hoarse  and  rude, 

Like  hunters  on  the  brow  of  dewy  hill, 

And  panting  deer  by  nearer  hounds  pursued : 

And  a  cold  shudder  thrill’d  the  multitude, 

As,  at  the  breath  of  that  mysterious  horn, 

Each  with  inquiring  gaze  his  neighbour  view’d, 

For  never  peal  on  woodland  echoes  borne, 

So  ghastly  and  so  shrill  awoke  the  spangled  morn. 

XLI. 

At  once  the  steely  bars  in  twain  were  rent ; 

At  once  the  oaken  valves  asunder  flew ; 

And  warrior  breasts,  in  iron  corslets  pent, 

Their  tighten’d  breath  with  painful  effort  drew ; 
For  louder,  louder  far  the  tumult  grew, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


7] 


That  earth’s  firm  planet  quaked  at  the  din, 

And  the  thick  air  assumed  a  browner  hue, 

Such  as  on  Nilus’  bank  hath  whilom  bin, 

When  Amram’s  mighty  son  rebuked  the  tyrant’s  sin. 

XLII. 

And  through  the  portal  arch  that  open’d  wide 

(How  came  she  or  from  whence  no  thought  could  tell) 
The  wedding-guests  with  fearful  wonder  eyed 
A  hind  of  loveliest  mould,  whose  snowy  fell 
Was  dyed,  alas  1  with  dolorous  vermeill. 

For  down  her  ruffled  flank  the  current  red 
From  many  a  wound  issued  in  fatal  well, 

As  staggering  faint  with  feeble  haste  she  sped, 

And  on  Ganora’s  lap  reclined  her  piteous  head. 

XLIII. 

With  claws  of  molten  brass,  and  eyes  of  flame, 

A  grisly  troop  of  hell-hounds  thronging  near, 

And  on  her  foamy  steed  a  damsel  came, 

A  damsel  fair  to  see,  whose  maiden  cheer, 

But  ill  beseem’d  the  ruthless  hunting  spear ; 

Whose  golden  locks  in  silken  net  were  twined, 

And  pure  as  heaving  snow  her  bosom  dear ; 

Yet  ceased  she  not  that  dreadful  horn  to  wind, 

And  strain’d  a  quivering  dart  for  fatal  use  design’d. 

XLIV. 

Reckless  of  loathed  life,  and  free  from  stain 
Of  deep  transgression,  could  Ganora  fear ! 

Forlorn  herself,  she  felt  for  others’  pain, 

And  cast  her. sheltering  robe  around  the  deer. 

To  whom  that  ma^ric  maid  with  brow  severe 


72 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  glaring  eye,  “  Oh,.  doom’d  to  lasting  woe, 

Waste  not,  unhappy  queen,  thy  pity  here, 

Nor  bid  my  righteous  rage  its  prey  forego, 

Who  keener  pangs  thyself,  Ganora,  soon  shalt  know ! 

XLV. 

“Poor  wither’d  heart,  that  hidest  from  human  eye 
The  bitter  secret  of  thine  inward  wound, 

Go,  doff  the  cumbrous  garb  of  royalty, 

And  seek  betimes  the  cloister’s  sacred  bound ! 

Ah,  warn’d  in  vain  !  I  hear  the  clarion  sound  ; 

Rings  to  the  charger’s  tread  the  shadowy  glen ; 

For  thee,  for  thee,  the  guarded  list  is  crown’d; 

For  thee  dark  treason  quits  her  snaky  den  ; 

The  battle’s  roar  resounds  for  thee,  and  groans  of  mangled 
men ! 

XLVI. 

“  Heap  high  the  wood,  and  bid  the  flames  aspire ! 

Bind  her  long  tresses  to  th’  accursed  tree  ! 

A  queen,  a  queen,  must  feed  the  funeral  fire ! 

Ah,  hope  not  thou,  though  love  shall  set  thee  free, 

With  that  restored  love  in  peace  to  be. 

And  shall  my  country  bend  her  awful  head 
To  lick  the  bitter  dust  of  slavery  ? 

Illustrious  isle  !  is  all  thy  glory  fled  ? 

How  soon  thy  knightly  boast  is  number’d  with  the  dead! 

xlvii. 

“  Yet  art  thou  safe,  and  Arthur’s  throne  may  stand.” 

(Down  from  the  lofty  saddle,  bending  low, 

The  dart  she  proffer’d  to  Ganora’s  hand;) 

“Nay,  shrink  not,  maiden,  from  the  needful  blow, 

Nor  spare,  in  yonder  hind,  thy  fiercest  foe, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


73 


Whose  secret  hate  from  forth  her  dark  recess, 

Besets  thy  guiltless  life  with  snares  of  woe. 

Take,  take  the  steel !  thy  wrongs  and  mine  redress  ! 
Mercy  were  impious  here  ! — be  strong,  be  merciless  !” 

XLVIII. 

Giddy  and  faint,  unknowing  where  she  was, 

Or  if,  indeed,  were  sooth  that  ghastly  view, 

Pale  as  some  wintry  lake,  whose  frozen  glass 
Steals  from  the  snow-clad  heaven  a  paler  hue, 
Ganora  sate ;  but  still  to  pity  true, 

Her  milk-white  arms  around  the  quarry  spread, 

Then  raised  to  Heaven  her  eyes  of  mildest  blue, 
And  to  her  cheek  return’d  a  dawning  red, 

As,  with  collected  soul,  she  bow’d  herself  and  said : 

XLIX. 

“  And  I  can  suffer  !  let  the  storm  descend ; 

Let  on  this  helpless  head  the  thunder  break ; 

Yet,  exercised  in  grief,  yet,  God  to  friend, 

1  can  endure  the  worst  for  mercy’s  sake  ! 

No,  wretched  suppliant !”  (to  the  hind  she  spake 
That  lick’d  her  hand,  and  with  large  tearful  eye 
Dwelt  on  her  gentle  face :)  “  thy  fears  forsake  ! 

Be  thou  my  friend,  I  doom  thee  not  to  die. 

And  thy  mute  love  shall  cheer  my  joyless  royalty.” 

L. 

“  Have  then  thy  wish !”  the  spectre  damsel  cried, 

And  call’d  her  dogs,  and  wheel’d  her  courser  round, 
And  with  the  javelin  smote  his  quivering  side; 

When,  swifter  than  the  rocket’s  fiery  bound, 

Aloft  they  sprang,  huntress,  and  horse,  and  hound, 
7 


74 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And,  dimly  mixing  with  the  horizon  gray, 

Fled  like  a  winged  dream,  yet  traces  found 
Of  gore  and  talons  told  their  recent  way ; 

And  still  before  the  queen  that  wounded  quarry  lay. 

LI, 

How  fares  the  knightly  court  of  Carduel  ? 

How  fare  the  wedding  guests  and  warrior  throng, 
Where  all  conspired  the  nuptial  mirth  to  swell, 

The  dance,  the  feast,  the  laugh,  the  wine,  the  song  ? 
Oh,  they  are  silent  all !  the  nimble  tongue 
Of  him,  whose  craft,  by  motley  kirtle  known, 

Had  graver  wits  with  seeming  folly  stung ; 

The  vaunting  soldier  and  the  simpering  crone, 

And  breathed  in  beauty’s  ear  the  sighs  of  softest  tone. 

L1I. 

As  one  who,  stretch’d  upon  a  battle-field, 

Looks  to  the  foeman’s  hand  who  laid  him  low, 

And,  with  faint  effort,  rears  his  broken  shield, 

And  dreads,  where  needeth  none,  a  second  blow. — 
Or,  likest  him  who,  where  the  surges’  flow 
Bares  the  bleak  surface  of  some  wave-beat  steep, 

A  shipwreck’d  man,  expects  in  breathless  woe, 

Till  the  returning  wave,  with  giant  sweep, 

Unlock  his  desperate  hold,  and  whelm  him  in  the  deep. 

Lin. 

So  blended  fears,  the  future  and  the  past, 

The  past  yet  seen  by  terror’s  glazed  eye, 

That,  tearless  still  and  wild,  those  phantoms  traced, 
Peopling  the  twilight’s  dismal  vacancy 
With  fancied  shapes,  and  shades  of  fiendish  dye ; 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


r 

i  0 

The  future  wildest,  darkest,  unexprest, 

Danger  untried,  unfancied  agony, 

In  the  mute  language  of  dismay  confest, 

Thrill’d  in  the  bristling  hair,  throbb’d  in  th’  expanded 
breast. 

LIV. 

Sternly  the  monarch  rose,  and  o’er  his  brow 
A  horrent  pang  of  dark  anxiety 
Shot  like  the  stormy  shadow,  scudding  low 
Along  the  surface  of  the  purple  sea. 

A  smile  succeeded.  Not  to  mine,  or  me, 

Be  that  portentous  smile  of  hate  and  scorn, 

Which  each  strong  furrow,  stronger  made  to  be, 

By  toil,  and  care,  and  ruthless  passion  worn, 

And  recollected  guilt  of  youth’s  tempestuous  morn  ! 

LV. 

“  Sister  !”  he  spake,  (half-utter’d,  half-represt, 

From  his  shut  teeth  the  sullen  accents  stole ;) 

“  And  deem’st  thou,  sister,  that  thine  arts  unblest 
Can  tame  the  settled  bent  of  Arthur’s  soul  ? 

No  !  let  the  stars  their  fiery  circles  roll ; 

Let  dreams  of  woe  disturb  the  prophet’s  breast : 

Can  these,  or  those,  the  warrior’s  will  control  ? 

’Tis  chance,  ’tis  error  all ! — Oh,  trusted  best ! 

Be  thou  mine  omen,  sword !  I  reck  not  of  the  rest !” 

LYI. 

The  wedded  pair  are  to  their  chamber  gone, 

While  minstrel  sounds  of  breath,  and  beat,  and  string 
Pour  on  the  dewy  breeze  their  blended  tone ; 


76 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  wreathed  maidens,  link’d  in  jocund  ring, 
u  Hymen”  around  them,  “  Io  Hymen”  sing. 

So,  trampling  roses  in  their  path,  they  sped, 

The  veiled  bride  and  the  triumphant  king, 

A  festal  glare  while  hundred  torches  shed, 

Tinging  the  cheek  of  night  with  all  unwonted  red. 


CANTO  II. 


I. 

Blest  is  the  midnight  of  the  cradled  boy, 

Along  whose  dimply  cheek  in  slumbers  mild 
The  warm  smile  basks  of  visionary  joy  ! 

And  blest  is  she,  who  by  her  sleeping  child 
Has  the  long  hours  in  watchful  love  beguiled : 

And  blest  the  weary  man  whose  wistful  eyes 
From  his  tall  frigate  scan  the  ocean  wild, 

When  the  fair  beacon  paints  the  ruddy  skies, 

And  on  his  tearful  heart  the  thoughts  of  home  arise. 

ii. 

And  dear  to  faithful  love  that  lovely  hour, 

And  dear  to  him  beyond  the  beam  of  day, 

Who  tracks  the  footsteps  of  eternal  power, 

Where  the  broad  Heavens  their  starry  map  display. 
Guilt,  only  guilt  detests  the  silent  ray 
Of  that  soul-searching  moon,  whose  lustre  sad 
Restores  neglected  conscience  to  her  sway, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


77 


And  bitter  memory  of  all  things  bad, 

In  crowds  forgotten  erst,  or  drown’d  in  revel  mad. 

hi. 

The  harp  was  silent,  and  the  tapers’  light 
Had  faded  from  the  walls  of  Carduel, 

Which  late,  through  many  a  window’s  latticed  height, 
On  the  dark  wave  in  fitful  lustre  fell ; 

And  far  and  faintly  peal’d  the  drowsy  bell 
That  wakes  the  convent  to  unwilling  prayer ; 

When  she,  that  seeming  hind  of  snowy  fell, 

Erect  upstarted  from  her  secret  lair, 

Erect,  in  awful  grace,  a  woman  goodly  fair. 

IV. 

Dark  o’er  her  neck  the  glossy  curls  descending, 

Half  hid  and  half  reveal’d  her  ivory  breast ; 

And  dark  those  eyes  where  pride,  with  sorrow  blending, 
Of  hate  and  ruth  a  mingled  tale  confest. 

Her  wreath  was  nightshade,  and  her  sable  vest 
All  spangled  o’er  with  magic  imagery, 

In  tighter  fold  her  stately  form  exprest, 

As  when  the  empress  of  the  silent  sky 

Explores  her  sleeping  love  on  Latmos’  summit  high. 

v. 

Or  likest  her  whose  melancholy  feet 
In  Stygian  valleys  wander  lonelily, 

Singing  sad  airs,  and  culling  flowers  sweet, 

(Yet  sweeter  flowers  in  Enna  wront  to  be) 

Daughter  of  Ceres,  sad  Persephone  1 
7* 


3E&* 


78  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Oh,  not  of  hell  the  adamantine  throne 
Nor  golden  bough  from  Acherusian  tree, 

Can  for  the  balmy  breeze  of  Heaven  atone, 

Or  match  the  common  light  of  earth’s  supernal  zone ! 

VI. 

So  sad,  so  beautiful,  so  sternly  bright, 

Skimming  the  silent  air  with  magic  tread, 

And  fairer  seen  beneath  the  fair  moonlight, 

That  elfin  lady  stood  by  Arthur’s  bed. 

A  tear,  in  spite  of  strong  disdain,  she  shed ; 

One  little  tear,  as  o’er  the  sleeping  twain 

Her  dark  eye  glanced ;  then,  with  averted  head, 

“  Ye  whom  I  serve  forgive  this  transient  pain; 

I  little  thought,”  she  sigh’d,  “  that  Morgue  would  weep 
again.” 

VII. 

Again  she  gazed,  again  a  softer  dew 
Dimm’d  of  her  lucid  eye  the  fiery  ray, 

As  sad  remembrance  waken’d  at  the  view 
Of  those  who  wrapp’d  in  dewy  slumber  lay. 

Nor  could  the  Chian’s  mimic  art  display 
A  goodlier  pair ;  yet  did  Ganora’s  cheek 
A  hectic  flush  unlike  to  joy  display ; 

And  from  her  half-closed  lips,  in  accent  weak, 

Would  ever  and  anon  a  mournful  murmur  break. 

VIII. 

“  Oh,  brother  once  most  dear,”  the  faery  said, 

“A  little  while  sleep  on,  a  little  while 
On  that  warm  breast  pillow  thy  careless  head, 

And  bless  thy  waking  eyes  with  beauty’s  smile. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


But  danger  hovers  near,  and  thorny  guile, 

And  jealous  love  that  borders  close  on  hate, 

And  angry  doubt  in  impotent  turmoil, 

Whose  murderous  purpose  not  for  proof  shall  wait, 
With  following  sorrow  join’d  and  penitence  too  late ! 

IX. 

“  And  thou,  poor  victim  of  another’s  crime, 

Hell  knows  I  hate  not  thee :  thy  simple  breast 
Sought  not  to  so  sad  eminence  to  climb  ! 

Yet  can  I  bear  to  see  Ganora  blest, 

Who  blesses  him  my  foe  ?  Oh,  dire  unrest ! 

Oh,  Morgue  condemn’d  with  frustrate  hope  to  groan 
I  sought  to  lure  her  from  her  cottage  nest ; 

I  sought  to  plant  her  on  an  empire’s  throne ; 

I  sought  and  I  obtain’d ;  would  it  were  all  undone . 

X. 

“  For  this,  alas,  I  watch’d  those  opening  charms, 

In  the  cool  covert  of  her  native  grove ; 

And  with  a  mother’s  hope,  for  Modred  s  arms 
Foredoom’d  Ganora’s  crown-compelling  love  ! 

Now  shall  that  spell-bound  life  a  bulwark  prove 
To  Arthur’s  reign !  Ah  me,  whose  feeble  power 
In  fate’s  perplexing  maze  with  Merlin  strove, 
And  with  my  rival  of  the  watery  bower, 

Of  that  too  potent  Mage  the  elfin  paramour  ! 

XI. 

u  What  yet  remains? — to  blast  with  mutter  d  spell 
The  budding  promise  of  their  nuptial  bed  ; 

Of  jealous  doubt  to  wake  the  inward  hell, 

And  evil  hopes  of  wandering  fancy  bred !” 


80 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


She  spake,  and  from  her  dewy  chaplet  shed 
Pernicious  moisture  o’er  each  dewy  limb, 

And  such  strange  words  of  imprecation  said, 

That  Heaven’s  own  overburning  lamp  grew  dim, 

And  shuddering,  ceased  awhile  the  saints’  triumphal  hymn. 

XII. 

But  all  in  vain  o’er  young  Ganora’s  breast, 

Guarded  by  prayer,  the  demon  whisper  stole ; 

Sorrow,  not  sin  disturb’d  that  tranquil  rest; 

Yet  ’gan  her  teeth  to  grind  and  eyes  to  roll, 

As  troublous  visions  shook  her  sleeping  soul; 

And  scalding  drops  of  agony  bedew’d 

Her  feverish  brow  more  hot  than  burning  coal. 

Whom  with  malignant  smile  the  faery  view’d, 

And  through  the  unopen’d  door  her  nightly  track  pursued. 

XIII. 

Like  as  that  evil  dame  whose  sullen  spell, 

To  love  dire  omen,  and  to  love’s  delight, 

(H  all  be  sooth  that  ancient  rabbins  tell,) 

With  death  and  danger  haunts  the  nuptial  night, 

Since  Adam  first  her  airy  charms  could  slight ; 

Her  Judah’s  daughters  scare  with  thrilling  cry, 

Lilith  !  fell  Lilith !  from  her  viewless  flight, 

What  time  with  flowers  their  jetty  locks  they  tie, 

And  swell  the  midnight  dance  with  amorous  harmony. 

XIV. 

With  slope  flight  winnowing  the  winds  of  Heaven, 

So  sped  king  Uther’s  child,  till  her  dark  eye 
Glanced  on  a  stately  knight,  whose  steps  uneven 
And  folded  arms  might  inward  grief  imply, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


81 


Or  love’s  wild  sting,  or  canker’d  jealousy. 

Above  whose  lucid  mail  and  shoulders  strong, 

The  furred  mantle  flow’d  of  royalty, 

And,  coil’d  around  his  crest,  a  dragon  long 
Upwreath’d  its  golden  spires  the  wavy  plumes  among. 

XV. 

Alone  he  paced,  from  all  the  band  afar 

Who  kept  with  equal  watch  their  sovereign’s  bower. 
Alone  with  gloomy  mien  and  visage  bare, 

Courting  the  cool  breeze  of  that  early  hour. 

Of  sterner  eye  than  Arthur’s,  and  the  flower 
Of  youth  as  yet  on  his  dark  features  glow’d  ; 

Yet  seem’d  like  Arthur’s  brows  his  brows  to  lower ; 
The  same  of  giant  height  his  stature  show’d, 

His  raven  locks  the  same,  but  not  with  silver  strow’d. 

XVI. 

“  Modred  !”  in  accent  low  and  bending  near, 

“  Modred,  my  son  !”  the  beauteous  faery  said, 

“  Ah,  wherefore,  at  my  voice  that  glance  severe, 

And  that  dear  cheek  suffused  with  angry  red  ? 

Yes,  I  deserve  thy  frown !  thy  mother’s  head, 

Child  of  my  pangs,  thy  keenest  curse  shall  bear, 

Who  with  warm  hope  thy  young  ambition  fed, 

And  weaved  the  secret  spell  with  nightly  care, 

Vain  hopes,  and  empty  spells  to  win  thy  promised  fair! 

XVII. 

“  And  comest  thou  yet,  mother  unfortunate  ! 

To  mock  with  dreams  of  transport  and  of  power 
My  gloomy  path,  whom,  with  a  common  hate, 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Since  first  thy  shame  disgraced  my  natal  hour, 

Of  Heaven  the  curses,  and  of  hell  devour  ! 

What  spell-bound  virgin  may  thy  charms  pursue? 

What  hovering  diadems  in  golden  shower 
Shall  mock  mine  oft-defeated  hopes  anew  ! 

He  ceased,  and  o’er  his  eyes  his  hollow  beaver  drew* 

XVIII. ' 

To  whom,  deep  sighing,  Uther’s  daughter  spake : 

u  Ah,  never  more  may  mother  hope  to  find, 

Who  weeps  and  watches  for  her  infant’s  sake, 

The  boy  obedient,  or  the  warrior  kind ! 

Our  toil,  our  hope  is  theirs,  our  heart,  our  mind ; 
For  them  wre  meditate,  for  them  we  pray  ; 

The  soul  for  them  in  sinful  chain  we  bind  ; 

And  for  their  weal  we  cast  our  own  away ; 

Yet  when  did  filial  love  a  parent’s  grief  repay  ? 

XIX. 

“  0  thou,  for  whom  of  mortal  things  alone, 
Unthankful  as  thou  art,  yet  ever  dear, 

My  soul  bends  downwards  from  its  cloudy  zone, 

And  on  mine  elfin  cheek  a  mortal  tear 
Warm  ling’ring,  tells  me  of  the  times  that  were  ! 
Accursed  for  whose  sake,  my  restless  wing^ 

And  more  than  mother’s  pangs  condemn’d  to  bear, 
(Till  time  and  fate  mine  hour  of  torment  bring,) 
Circles  the  arch  of  Heaven  in  melancholy  ring ! 

XX. 

“  My  Son  !  by  all  I  feel,  by  all  I  dread, 

If  either  parent’s  fate  thy  sorrow  move, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


88 


(A  father  slain,  a  mother  worse  than  dead,) 

Grudge  not  the  little  payment  of  thy  love  ! 

Nor  scorn  my  power !  though  spell  unfaithful  prove, 
Though  Merlin’s  mightier  skill  my  hope  have  crost, 

Yet  not  the  fiends  below,  nor  saints  above, 

Nor  elfin  tribes  in  airy  tempests  tost, 

Can  tame  my  steadfast  will.  All,  Modred,  is  not  lost  !” 

XXI. 

“  Then  tell  me,”  cried  the  youth,  “  who  was  my  sire, 

And  wherefore  thou,  estranged  from  mortal  clay, 
Bearest  so  dark  a  doom  of  penal  fire, 

A  wretched  wanderer  on  the  Heavens’  high  way, 

Once  Albion’s  princess,  now  an  elfin  gray  ? 

Too  long  thou  tirest  with  boding  saws  my  breast, 

Mocking  thy  son  with  phantoms  of  dismay, 

Whose  ardent  soul,  by  feverish  doubt  opprest, 

Burns  o’er  the  unfinish’d  tale,  and  longs  to  hear  the  rest.” 

XXII. 

The  faery  grasp’d  his  mailed  hand,  and  led 
Where  the  deep  waters,  rolling  silently, 

Beneath  the  western  gate  their  mirror  spread, 

And  on  the  giant  walls  and  arches  high 
A  lonely  horror  sate  continually. 

No  warder,  there  with  beacon  flaming  bright, 

Needed  with  weary  pace  his  watch  to  ply, 

But  cold  and  calm,  the  sinking  stars  of  night 
Play’d  on  the  rippling  wave  with  ineffectual  light. 

XXIII. 

There,  where  adown  the  solitary  steep, 

With  foxglove  twined,  and  mosses  silver  gray, 


84 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  trickling  runnel  seem’d  the  fate  to  weep 
Of  one  whose  rustic  tomb  beside  it  lay, 

That  lovely  sorceress  bent  her  mournful  way ; 

And  gathering  strength — “Behold  the  honours  here 
Bestow’d  by  Arthur  on  thy  parent’s  clay ! 

Behold !  forgive,  my  boy,  this  coward  tear ; 

Blood,  blood  alone  shall  soothe  the  ghost  who  wanders  near 

XXIV. 

“  He,  when  of  downy  youth  the  vernal  light 

Play’d  on  thy  mother’s  cheek  now  wan  with  care, 

And  many  a  peer  of  fame  and  many  a  knight 
To  Britain’s  princess  pour’d  the  tender  prayer, 

He,  only  he,  the  valiant  and  the  fair, 

To  this  weak  heart  an  easy  entrance  found ; 

An  humble  squire ;  but  not  an  empire’s  heir 

Could  vie  with  Paladore  on  listed  ground ; 

With  every  manly  grace,  and  every  virtue  crown’d. 

XXV. 

“  0  days  of  bliss,  0  hope  chastised  by  fear, 

When  on  my  lap  reclined  the  careless  boy, 

Chid  my  faint  sighs,  and  kiss’d  my  falling  tear ! 

He  knew  not,  he,  what  bitter  doubts  annoy 
Of  unpermitted  love  the  trembling  joy  ; 

He  knew  not  till  my  brother’s  thirsty  blade 
Flash’d  o’er  his  head,  impetuous  to  destroy. 

I  clasp’d  the  tyrant’s  knees,  I  wept,  I  pray’d ; 

0  God,  on  Arthur’s  soul  be  all  my  griefs  repaid ! 

XXVI. 

“  When  from  a  trance  of  senseless  agony  • 

I  woke  to  keener  pangs,  by  frenzy  stung, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Reckless  of  Arthur’s  late  repentant  cry, 

Fire  in  my  brain  and  curses  on  my  tongue, 

From  yonder  cliff  my  wretched  frame  I  flung; 
Alas,  th’  enchanted  wind  my  weight  upbore, 

While  in  mine  ears  an  elvish  chorus  rung, 

— ‘  Come,  kindred  spirit,  to  our  cloudy  shore  ! 

With  fays,  thyself  a  fay,  come  wander  evermore  !’ 

XXVII. 

“  Since,  on  the  rolling  clouds  or  ocean  blue, 

Or  ’mid  the  secrets  of  our  nether  sphere, 

The  goblin  leader  of  a  goblin  crew, 

I  wander  wide ;  but  ill  may  mortal  ear 
Of  faery  land  the  mystic  revels  hear  ! 

Short  be  my  tale !  one  earthly  thing  alone, 

One  helpless  infant  to  my  heart  wras  dear, 

Bright  in  whose  eyes  his  either  parent  shone, 

Rear’d  by  their  pitying  foe,  my  son,  my  blessed  son !’ 

XXVIII. 

She  ceased,  and  round  his  linked  hauberk  threw 
Her  mother  arms,  and  on  his  iron  breast 
(The  rough  mail  moistening  with  tender  dew) 

A  kiss,  the  seal  of  bitter  love,  imprest. 

He,  stern  and  dark,  no  kindly  glow  confest, 

With  face  averted  and  with  frozen  eye, 

Where  softer  passion  never  dared  to  rest, 

But  cunning  seem’d  with  sullen  pride  to  vie, 

Calm,  calculating  hate,  and  damned  cruelty. 

XXIX. 

“  How  I  have  train’d  thee,  with  what  potent  charms 
My  magic  care  thy  tender  frame  imbued, 


86 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


How  nursed  thy  youth  for  empire  and  for  arms, 

And  how,  in  Derwent’s  mountain  solitude, 

I  rear’d  thy  destined  bride,”  the  fay  pursued, 

“  And  what  strange  chance  o’erthrew  mine  airy  skill, 
Alas,  thou  know’st  it  all  !  yet  to  delude 
The  force  we  cannot  stem  is  triumph  still, 

And  from  reluctant  fate  t’  extort  our  good  or  ill. 

XXX. 

“  0  earth  !  how  many  wonders  wonderful 
In  thy  large  lap  and  parent  bosom  lie, 

Which  whoso  knows  (few  know  them  all)  to  cull, 

May  drag  the  struggling  planets  from  on  high, 

And  turn  the  land  to  sea,  the  sea  to  dry ; 

Yea,  not  man’s  will,  by  God  created  free, 

Can  match  their  strange  mysterious  potency, 

Nor  love  nor  hate  so  firmly  fixed  be, 

But  love  must  yield  and  hate  to  magic’s  dark  decree. 

XXXI. 

“  A  ring  there  is  of  perfect  diamond  stone, 

Such  as  no  mining  slave  is  train’d  to  seek, 

Nor  Soldan  numbers  on  his  orient  throne, 

Nor  diving  Ethiop  from  his  sultry  creek 
Has  borne  so  rich  a  prize ;  for  who  shall  speak 
What  unseen  virtues  in  its  orbit  dwell  ? 

Press  it,  the  fiends  attend  in  homage  meek ; 

Turn  it,  the  bearer  walks  invisible ; 

Ah,  who  the  hidden  force  of  smallest  things  may  tell  ? 

XXXII. 

“  That  same  to  one  of  regal  race  I  lent, 

Who  now  perforce  must  render  back  the  prize, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


S7 

For  of  his  stars  the  danger  imminent, 

And  guiltless  blood  loud  crying  to  the  skies 
Alarm  all  hell ;  do  thou  as  I  desire  ; 

This  self-same  morn  depart  for  Scottish  land, 

There  Urgan  seek,  king  Pellea  s  uncle  wise, 

And  bid  him  yield  to  thy  deputed  hand 

That  ring  of  diamond  stone,  for  such  is  Morgue’s  command. 

XXXIII. 

“  Have  we  not  heard  how  shepherd  Gyges  hare, 

By  like  deceit  from  old  Candaule’s  bed, 

In  naked  beauty  seen,  the  Lydian  fair, 

And  kindly  circle  from  his  dotard  head, 

Thenceforth  himself  a  king?”— u  No  more  !”  he  said— 
“  Mother,  no  more !  or  ere  the  sun’s  bright  round 
Have  tinged  yon  eastern  cloud  with  lively  red, 

My  fiery  steed  shall  paw  the  spangled  ground, 

And  on  the  Cattraeth’s  side  my  clashing  arms  resound. 

XXXIV. 

Like  as  the  hawk  from  hidden  durance  free 

Springs  from  the  falc’ner’s  wrist,  the  eager  knight, 

His  dark  cheek  warm  with  savage  ecstasy, 

Burst  from  his  parent’s  hold.  She  with  delight 
His  warrior  mien  beheld  and  giant  height, 

Awhile  beheld,  then,  rapt  in  mist  away, 

Back  to  the  bridal  turret  bent  her  flight, 

There  closely  couch’d  amid  the  rushes  gray, 

0  power  of  wicked  spells  !— a  seeming  hind  she  lay. 

XXXV. 

By  this  the  fiery  wheeled  charioteer 

Had  raised  above  the  fringed  hills  hia  head, 


88 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  o’er  the  skies  in  molten  amber  clear 
A  flood  of  life  and  liquid  beauty  shed, 

When,  sun-like,  rising  from  his  fragrant  bed, 

All  glorious  in  his  bliss,  the  bridegroom  king 
Pass’d  to  the  common  hall,  and  with  him  led, 
Blushing  and  beauteous  as  that  morn  of  spring, 

The  fair  foredoomed  cause  of  Albion’s  sorrowing. 

XXXVI. 

The  mass  was  ended,  and  the  silver  tone 

Of  shawm  and  trumpet  bade  the  courtier  crew 
In  martial  pastime  round  their  monarch’s  throne, 

That  livelong  day  their  mimic  strife  pursue, 

As  each  the  thirst  of  various  pleasure  drew ; 

Some  launch’d  the  glossy  bowl  in  alleys  green, 

Some  the  stiff*  bar  with  sturdy  sinews  threw, 

Some,  in  bright  arms  and  wavy  plumage  seen, 

Wielded  the  quivering  lance  the  guarded  lists  between. 

XXXVII. 

So  was  there  mirth  in  stately  Carduel ; 

Till  in  the  midst  a  stranger  dame  was  seen, 

Whose  snowy  veil  in  graceful  wimple  fell 
Above  the  sable  garb  of  velvet  sheen ; 

Als  in  her  hand,  of  metal  deadly  keen, 

A  sheathed  sword  and  studded  belt  she  bare. 

Golden  the  hilt,  the  sheath  of  silver  clean, 

Whose  polish’d  mirror  back  reflected  fair 

Her  cheeks  of  vermeil  tinge,  her  auburn  length  of  hair. 

XXXVIII. 

Stately  she  rode  along,  and  keen  her  eye 

That  scann’d  with  eager  glance  that  warrior  crew; 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


89 


Vet  was  her  blush  so  meek  and  maidenly, 

That  never  village  lass  in  apron  blue 
With  purer  roses  caught  the  passing  view. 

Stately  she  rode  along,  and  in  her  train, 

With  floating  locks  and  beards  of  silver  hue, 

Two  goodly  squires,  array’d  in  mourning  grain, 

On  either  side  controll’d  her  palfrey’s  silken  rein. 

XXXIX. 

Like  as  that  lovely  month  to  lovers  dear, 

Unlocks  the  green  bud  on  the  scented  spray, 

And  laps  in  freshest  flowers  the  tender  year, 

And  tunes  the  songs  of  nature, — blessed  May ; 

Such  was  the  joy  this  damsel  to  survey. 

But  that  deceitful  hind  who  by  the  bride, 

Licking  her  hand,  in  treacherous  fondness  lay, 

Arose,  and  skulking  to  the  farther  side 

In  guilty  darkness  sought  her  harmful  head  to  hide. 

XL. 

Alighting  from  her  steed,  some  little  space 

Propt  on  that  antique  sword  the  maiden  leant ; 

While  silence  gave  her  blushing  cheek  more  grace, 

And  her  warm  tears,  touchingly  eloquent, 

Through  warrior  hearts  a  pleasing  anguish  sent. 

Then,  with  collected  voice  she  told  her  grief, 

Of  bitter  wrong,  and  treason  imminent 
Done  to  her  kindred  by  a  Scottish  chief, 

’Gainst  whom  at  Arthur’s  court  she,  suppliant,  sought  relief  - 

XLI. 

Her  lands  he  wasted,  and  with  tortuous  wrong 
Herself  had  banish’d  from  her  native  right ; 


8* 


90 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  felon  warrior,  neither  bold  nor  strong, 

But  safe  and  reckless  of  all  human  might 
By  charms  impregnable  and  magic  sleight. 

44  For,  as  some  evil  thought,  he  walks  unseen 
Scattering  around  in  murderous  despight 
From  viewless  bow  his  arrows  deadly  keen, 

That  strength  and  courage  fail  t’  oppose  so  fatal  teen.” 

XLII. 

44  Alas  !”  said  Arthur,  44  and  can  mortal  wight 
With  trenchant  steel  a  viewless  life  invade, 

Or  probe  with  dagger  point  his  pall  of  night?” 

44  Who,”  she  replied,  44  can  draw  this  charmed  blade 
Worn  by  my  sire,  on  him  my  doom  is  laid. 

But  now  seven  years  through  many  a  distant  land, 
Patient  of  ill,  my  weary  course  has  stray’d. 

Nor  knight  is  found  so  brave  whose  stainless  hand 
Can  from  its  burnish’d  sheath  unlock  my  fatal  brand.” 

XLlII. 

She  ceased,  and  through  the  crowded  fort  there  spread 
A  deep  hoarse  murmur,  as  th’  autumnal  sound 
In  hazel  bower,  when  Sherwood’s  rustling  head 
Shakes  in  the  blast,  and  o’er  the  dusty  ground, 

And  in  mid  sky  the  falling  leaves  abound. 

Beneath  her  bramble  screen  the  crouching  hare 
Erects  her  ears,  and  quaking  as  astound, 

Shrinks  from  the  breath  of  that  inclement  air, 

And  the  fast  driving  sleet  that  strips  the  branches  bare. 

XLIV. 

Then  sudden  from  a  hundred  tongues  arose 

Harsh  words  and  high,  and  hand  to  hilt  was  laid, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


9* 


And  taunt  and  threat  portended  deadly  blows, 

Each  claiming  for  himself  that  charmed  blade, 

And  envied  guidance  of  the  noble  maid. 

But  Arthur,  rising  from  his  gilded  throne, 

“  Back,  on  your  lives,  presumptuous  subjects  !”  said, 
“For  this  adventure  I  resign  to  none, 

Not  Lancelot  himself,  of  knights  the  paragon  !” 

XLV. 

Awed,  yet  reluctant,  back  the  crowd  withdrew, 

While  Arthur  from  the  maid  her  sword  required, 

And  poising  in  his  hands  with  curious  view, 

Its  antique  frame  and  massy  weight  admired. 

Then,  bending  low,  with  gripple  might,  desired 
Forth  from  its  silver  sheath  the  blade  to  strain, 

Which,  following  for  a  space,  again  retired, 

Mocking  wTith  magic  sleight  his  fruitless  pain ; 

Seven  times  the  king  essay’d,  seven  times  essay’d  in  vain. 

XL  VI. 

As  some  stout  churl  by  sinewy  toil  embrown’d, 

Foil’d  by  a  stranger  in  the  wrestler’s  play, 

Arises  mourning,  from  the  plashy  ground, 

His  batter’d  limbs  and  face  deform’d  with  clay, 

And  cursing  oft  that  luckless  holiday ! 

So  Arthur  back  the  charmdd  steel  restored, 

And  turn’d  with  sullen  scowl  his  eyes  away, 

As  many  a  knight  of  fame,  and  warlike  lord, 

In  long  succession  strove  to  drag  that  fatal  sword. 

XLVII. 

But  not  Sir  Carados  thine  iron  arm, 

Nor  Kay’s  stout  heart  and  vaunted  pedigree, 


02 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Nor  Gahriet’s  youthful  grace  could  break  the  charm, 
Nor  Gawain’s  force  and  faith  and  courage  free ; 
Though  when  he  strove,  the  knight  of  courtesy, 

The  conscious  sword  awhile  his  hand  obey’d, 

That  men  a  span’s  length  of  its  edge  might  see, 

As  sunbeam  radiant  and  with  gold  inlaid ; 

Yet  would  not  all  suffice  to  bear  that  stubborn  blade. 

XliVIlI. 

Whereat  the  damsel  made  exceeding  moan, 

Shedding  salt  tears ;  nor  did  her  sorrow  spare 
Her  breast  more  lovely  white  than  marble  stone, 

Nor  the  long  radiance  of  her  sunny  hair ; 

That  not  the  rudest  gloom  such  sight  could  bear 
But  a  sudden  murmur  through  the  palace  spread 
“  Alas  the  while  that  Lancelot  were  there  ! 

Then  had  not  Arthur’s  court  been  shamed” — they  said, 
“  Nor  those  love-darting  eyes  so  bitter  fountains  shed.” 

XLIX. 

A  knight  there  was  whose  erring  hardihood 
And  fiery  soul,  that  insult  ill  could  bear, 

Had  bathed  his  falchion  in  Cucullin’s  blood, 

Who  yearly  made  to  Britain’s  court  repair ! 

(Haughty  Cucullin,  Erin’s  haughty  heir,) 

Condemn’d  for  this  (such  vengeance  Arthur  vow’d) 

To  the  chill  dungeon’s  damp  and  stony  lair  ; 

Through  the  close-grated  loop  he  call’d  aloud, 

And  what  that  tumult  meant,  besought  the  passing  crowd. 

L. 

Which  when  he  heard,  so  strangely  confident, 

With  such  warm  hope  he  craved  his  chance  to  try, 


——a 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


93 


That  through  the  court  a  louder  murmur  went, 

As  pity  kindled  into  mutiny ; 

And  Arthur,  yielding  to  his  people’s  cry, 

“  Let  him  come  forth  ! — his  doom  in  sooth  was  hard  ; 

A  soldier’s  fault !”  he  mutter’d  carelessly; 

“  And  knight  so  long  in  listless  prison  barr’d, 

Has  well  such  fault  atoned — Go  bring  him  hitherward  !’ 

LI. 

So  was  Sir  Balin  brought  before  the  throne, 

A  gaunt  and  meagre  man,  of  hue  forlorn  ! 

For  forty  months  of  lingering  care  were  gone, 

Since  on  his  flinty  couch  the  smile  of  morn 
Had  rested,  or  on  dewy  pinions  borne, 

The  fragrant  summer  blest  his  solitude. 

His  limbs  were  with  the  linked  iron  worn, 

And  his  long  raven  hair  in  tresses  rude 

Hung  o’er  his  hollow  cheeks  with  prison  damps  imbued. 

LII. 

Around  him  wildly  gazing,  (for  his  sight 

Shrank  from  th’  unwonted  beam  of  perfect  day, 

And  those  embattled  guards  whose  armour  bright 
Flash’d  in  the  sunshine  like  the  torch’s  ray,) 

He  to  the  stranger  damsel  bent  his  way. 

And,  “Lady,  scorn  me  not  !  the  time  has  been 
Or  ere  this  bondage,”  he  began  to  say, 

“  That  gayer  robes,  and  knights  of  statelier  mien, 
Have  felt  mine  arm  as  strong,  my  lance  as  deadly  keen.’ 

LIII. 

“  I  pray  thee  give  the  sword  !” — the  sword  she  gave  ; 
“Long,  very  long  it  seems,”  the  captive  cried, 


94 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


“  Since  these  poor  hands  have  felt  a  battle  glaive  !” 
Yet  as  the  pommel’s  wieldy  grasp  he  tried, 

Dawn’d  on  his  hollow  cheek  a  martial  pride, 

And  the  dark  smile  of  warrior  ecstasy 

Across  his  care-w7orn  visage  seem’d  to  glide; 

And  flashing  like  a  meteor  to  the  sky, 

Forth  sprang  the  charmed  blade,  the  blade  of  victory. 

LIV. 

Say,  have  ye  mark’d  what  winged  moments  fall 
Between  the  distant  cannon’s  flash  and  roar  ? 

Such  was  the  pause  ensued,  and  such  the  swell 
Of  following  rapture  shook  the  ocean  shore. 

Rung  every  vaulted  gate  and  turret  hoar ; 

Rung  the  far  abbey  spires,  and  cloister’d  bound ; 

While  as  they  sail’d  the  moss-grown  rampart  o’er, 
The  sea-bird  reel’d  on  giddy  pinions  round, 

And  the  wood-fringM  rocks  return’d  a  hollow  sound. 

LV. 

When  all  was  hush’d,  the  not  unmindful  king 
From  Balin  bade  the  guard  unloose  his  chain, 

While  robes  of  knightly  blue  the  pages  bring, 

And  furred  mantle  of  majestic  train. 

He,  with  a  settled  smile  of  calm  disdain, 

Received  the  gifts ;  but  when  his  well-known  mail, 
And  shield,  and  rusted  helm  were  brought  again, 
Quaked  his  dark  lip,  and  voice  began  to  fail, 

And  the  fast-falling  tear  bedew’d  his  features  pale. 

LVI. 

So  when  the  feast  was  ended  in  the  hall, 

Nor  longer  would  remain  th’  impatient  maid, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


95 


Though  Arthur  much,  and  much  his  nobles  all, 

But  most  her  presence  young  Ganora  pray’d ; 

To  each  with  courtly  smile  her  thanks  she  paid, 

And  graceful  on  that  docile  palfrey  sprung ; 

While  close  beside,  in  wonted  steel  array’d, 
Victorious  Balin’s  clashing  armour  rung, 

Whom  many  a  knight  beheld,  with  serpent  envy  stung. 

LYII. 

But  while  o’er  many  a  wood-fringed  hill 
And  heath  of  purple  tint  their  journey  lay, 

That  seeming  bind,  fair  architect  of  ill, 

In  Arthur’s  palace  sojourn’d  many  a  day, 

Expert  in  fraud,  and  watchful  to  betray. 

Expert  with  pliant  limb,  and  bounding  high 
Before  the  queen,  her  gambols  to  display ; 

Or  fond  and  flattering  at  her  feet  to  lie, 

And  mirror  every  thought  in  her  large  lucid  eye. 

LYIII. 

So  past  the  day ;  but  when  the  seven-fold  team, 

That  fear  to  tinge  their  feet  in  ocean  deep, 

Shot  from  the  topmost  north  their  twinkling  beam, 

And  over  mortal  lids  the  dews  of  sleep 
(To  weary  man  blest  visitation)  creep, 

Forth  in  the  silence  of  the  world  she  sped, 

A  nymph  of  air  her  unblest  watch  to  keep  ; 

Or,  wrapt  in  mist,  beside  the  bridal  bed 

Of  poor  Ganora’s  heart  the  wandering  wishes  read. 

LIX. 

The  early  trace  of  youthful  love  was  there, 

And  airy  hope  that  flatter’d  to  betray ; 


96 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  disappointment,  with  salt-smarting  tear, 

Had  blotted  half  the  simple  lines  away  ; 

The  other  half  too  deeply  graven  lay, 

And,  though  contending  with  that  earthly  flame, 
Celestial  ardours  sent  their  purer  ray, 

Though  late— Ah,  female  heart,  of  feeble  frame, 

Of  pomp,  and  rank,  and  power,  the  novel  rapture  came 

LX. 

Yet  in  the  midst,  and  sov’reign  o’er  her  breast, 

Cadwal,  young  Cadwal,  held  his  fatal  throne, 

And,  e’en  to  wakeful  conscience  unconfest, 

Her  fear,  her  grief,  her  joy  were  his  alone : 

Yes,  every  sigh  that  heaved  her  silken  zone, 

From  hapless  love  a  dearer  sorrow  drew, 

And,  to  Ganora’s  secret  self  unknown, 

Arose  before  "the  faery’s  eager  view ; 

Ah  me  !  what  airy  spies  our  silent  thoughts  pursue  ! 

LXI. 

And  think’ st  thou,  man,  thy  secret  wish  to  shroud 
In  the  close  bosom’s  sealed  sepulchre  ? 

Or,  wrapt  in  saintly  mantle  from  the  crowd, 

To  hug  thy  darling  sin  that  none  may  see  ? 

A  thousand,  thousand  eyes  are  bent  on  thee ; 

And  where  thy  bolts  the  babbling  world  exclude, 

And  in  the  darkness  where  thou  lov’st  to  be, 

A  thousand,  thousand  busy  sprites  intrude  ; 

Earth,  air,  and  heaven  are  full,  there  is  no  solitude. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


97 


CANTO  III. 


I. 

When  I  rehearse  each  gorgeous  festival, 

And  knightly  pomp  of  Arthur’s  elder  day, 

And  muse  upon  these  Celtic  glories  all, 

Which,  save  some  remnant  of  the  minstrel’s  lay, 
Are  melted  in  oblivious  stream  away, 

(So  deadly  bit  the  Saxon  blade  and  sore) 

Perforce  I  rue  such  perilous  decay, 

And,  reckless  of  my  race,  almost  deplore 

That  ever  northern  keel  deflower’d  the  Logrian  shorec 

n. 

0  thou,  the  ancient  genius  of  the  land, 

Who  wont  on  old  Belusium’s  sunny  steep, 

And  nigh  the  holy  mount,  with  armed  hand, 

In  vision  dimly  seen,  thy  watch  to  keep, 

Our  angel  guard,  whose  eagle  pinions  sweep 
In  circling  flight  around  his  rock-built  nest, 

Now  soaring  high,  now  dark’ning  half  the  deep, 
The  broad  wave  bursting  with  his  shadowy  breast, 

Oh,  did  not  his  lament  foreshow  the  nearer  pest ! 

hi. 

Say,  did  not  he,  when  Hengist  plough’d  the  main, 
With  gathering  mist  the  conqueror’s  track  dismay, 
And  smite  his  radiant  brows  in  parent  pain, 

And  sadly  rend  his  samphire  wreath  away  ? 

No,  brighter  beam’d  his  prescient  eye  that  day, 

9 


98 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  as  the  proud  bark  swept  the  waters  free, 

He  bade  the  rustling  waves  around  it  play. 

While  softly  stole  across  the  sunny  sea. 

From  many  a  twisted  shell,  the  mermaid’s  harmony. 

IV. 

Now  forty  times  the  golden-haired  dawn 
Had  sprung  from  old  Tithonus’  dewy  bed, 

And  forty  times  across  the  fading  lawn, 

Had  summer  eve  her  filmy  mantle  spread, 

Since  young  Ganore  to  Mary’s  aisle  was  led 
A  pensive  bride ;  and  yet,  I  wot  not  why, 

But  those  who  best  could  read  her  blushes  said, 
Not  now  so  much  she  droop’d  the  timid  eye, 

Nor  paid  her  Arthur’s  warmth  with  so  cold  courtesy. 

V. 

She  was  his  wife !  for  this  she  strove  to  bear 
Of  that  portentous  eye  the  tawny  glow ; 

And  those  deep  indents  of  ambitious  care 
That  mapp’d  his  dark  and  melancholy  brow ; 

She  was  beloved ;  for  well  the  fair  might  know 
How  that  stern  heart  was  fix’d  on  her  alone, 

When,  melted  all  in  love’s  delirious  flow, 

The  vanquish’d  victor  at  her  feet  was  thrown ; 

And  she  was  inly  vain  to  feel  such  power  her  own. 

VI. 

So  was  she  pleased  herself  who  sought  to  please ; 

Till  on  a  day  when  all  the  court  would  ride 
To  drink  in  Cattraeth’s  woods  the  cooler  breeze, 
And  rouse  the  dun  deer  from  Terwathlin’s  side, 

It  chanced  the  queen  within  her  bower  to  bide, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


99 


As  one  in  boisterous  pastime  rarely  seen ; 

Who  little  loved  the  hunter’s  cruel  pride, 

Or  maddening  shout  that  rends  the  forest  green, 

Or  their  poor  quarry’s  groan  the  bugle  notes  between. 

VII. 

Loth  was  her  lord  to  miss,  that  livelong  day, 

Her  soft  sweet  glances  and  her  converse  sweet ; 

Yet  cared  he  not  to  cross  her  purposed  stay ; 

And  forth  he  fared,  but  still  with  ling’ring  feet 
And  backward  look,  and  “  Oh  when  lovers  meet 
How  bless’d,”  he  thought,  “  the  evening’s  tranquil  hour, 
From  care  and  cumbrous  pomp  a  glad  retreat.” 

Not  since  his  youth  first  quaff’d  the  cup  of  power, 

Had  Arthur  praised  before  the  calm  sequester’d  bower. 

VIII. 

And  forth  he  fared ;  while  from  her  turret  high 
That  smiling  form  beheld  his  hunter  crew ; 

Pleased  she  beheld,  whose  unacquainted  eye 
Found  in  each  varying  scene  a  pleasure  new. 

Nor  yet  had  pomp  fatigued  her  sated  view, 

Nor  custom  pall’d  the  gloss  of  royalty. 

Like  some  gay  child,  a  simple  bliss  she  drew 
From  every  gaud  of  feudal  pageantry, 

And  every  broider’d  garb  that  swept  in  order  by. 

XIX. 

And  sooth,  it  was  a  brave  and  antic  sight, 

Where  plume,  and  crest,  and  tassel  wildly  blending, 
And  bended  bow,  and  javelin  flashing  bright, 

Mark’d  the  gay  squadron  through  the  copse  descending ; 
The  greyhound,  with  his  silken  leash  contending, 


100 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Wreathed  the  lithe  neck ;  and  on  the  falconer’s  hand, 
With  restless  perch  and  pinions  broad  depending, 

Each  hooded  goshawk  kept  her  eager  stand, 

And  to  the  courser’s  tramp  loud  rang  the  hollow  land. 

X. 

And  over  all,  in  accents  sadly  sweet, 

The  mellow  bugle  pour’d  its  plaintive  tone, 

That  echo  joy’d  such  numbers  to  repeat, 

Who  from  dark  glade  or  rock  of  pumice-stone, 

Sent  to  the  woodland  nymphs  a  softer  moan  ; 

While  listening  far  from  forth  some  fallow  brown, 

The  swinked  ploughman  left  his  work  undone ; 

And  the  glad  schoolboy  from  the  neighbouring  town 
Sprang  o’er  each  prisoning  rail,  nor  reck’d  his  master’s  frown 

XI. 

Her  warm  cheek  pillow’d  on  her  ivory  hand, 

Her  long  hair  waving  o’er  the  battlement, 

In  silent  thought  Granora  kept  her  stand, 

Though  feebly  now  the  distant  bugle  sent 
Its  fading  sound ;  and,  on  the  brown  hill’s  bent, 

Nor  horse,  nor  hound,  nor  hunter’s  pomp  was  seen. 

Yet  still  she  gazed  on  empty  space  intent, 

As  one  who,  spell-bound,  on  some  haunted  green 
Beholds  a  faery  show,  the  twilight  elms  between. 

XII. 

That  plaintive  bugle’s  well  remember’d  tone 

Could  search  her  inmost  heart  with  magic  sway ; 

To  her  it  spoke  of  pleasures  past  and  gone, 

And  village  hopes,  and  friends  far,  far  away, 

While  busy  memory’s  scintillating  play 


MISCELLANEOUS.  101 

Mock’d  her  weak  heart  with  visions  sadly  dear, 

The  shining  lakelet,  and  the  mountain  gray : 

And  who  is  he,  the  youth  of  merriest  cheer, 

Who  waves  his  eagle  plume  and  grasps  his  hunting  spear  ? 

XIII. 

As  from  a  feverish  dream  of  pleasant  sin, 

She,  starting,  trembled,  and  her  mantle  blue, 

With  golden  border  bright,  and  silver  pin, 

Round  her  wet  cheek  and  heaving  bosom  drew  ; 

Yet  still  with  heavy  cheer  and  downcast  view, 

From  room  to  room  she  wander’d  to  and  fro, 

Till  chance  or  choice  her  careless  glances  threw 
Upon  an  iron  door,  whose  archway  low, 

And  valves  half  open  flung  a  gorgeous  sight  might  show. 

XIV. 

It  was  a  hall  of  costliest  garniture, 

With  arras  hung  in  many  a  purple  fold; 

Whose  glistering  roof  was  part  of  silver  pure, 

And  silken  part,  and  part  of  twisted  gold, 

With  arms  embroider’d  and  achievements  old ; 

Where  that  rich  metal  caught  reflected  day, 

As  in  the  hours  of  harvest  men  behold 
Amid  their  sheaves  a  lurking  adder  play, 

Whose  burnish’d  back  peeps  forth  amid  the  stubble  gray. 

XV. 

And  in  the  midst,  an  altar  richly  dight 
With  ever-burning  lamps  of  silver  pale, 

And  silver  cross,  and  chalice  heavenly  bright, 

Before  whose  beam  a  sinful  heart  might  quail, 

And  sinful  eye  to  bear  its  beauty  fail. 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

It  was,  I  ween,  that  gracious  implement 

Of  heavenly  love,  the  three-times  hallow  d  Orayle 
To  Britain’s  realm  awhile  in  mercy  lent. 

Till  sin  defiled  the  land,  and  lust  incontinent. 

XVI. 

Strange  things  of  that  time-honour’d  urn  were  told, 

For  youth  it  wont  in  aged  limbs  renew, 

And  kindle  life  in  corpses  deadly  cold  ; 

Yea  palsy  warmth,  and  fever  coolness  drew, 

While  faith  knelt  gazing  on  its  heavenly  hue. 

For  not  with  day’s  reflected  beam  it  shone, 

Nor  fiery  radiance  of  the  taper’s  blue  ; 

But  from  its  hollow  rim  around  was  thrown 
A  soft  and  sunny  light,  eternal  and  its  own. 

XVII. 

And  many  a  riven  helm  around  was  hung, 

And  many  a  shield  reversed,  and  shiver’d  spear, 

And  armour  to  the  passing  footsteps  rung, 

And  crowns  that  paynim  kings  were  wont  to  wear ; 
Rich  crowns,  strange  arms,  hut  shatter’d  all  and  sere; 
Lo  !  this  the  chapel  of  that  table  round, 

And  shrine  of  Arthur  and  his  warriors  dear ; 

Where  vent’rous  knights  by  secret  oaths  were  hound, 
And,  bless’d  by  potent  prayers,  their  foemen  to  confound. 

XVIII. 

Nor  less  the  scene  such  solemn  use  became, 

Whose  every  wall  in  freshest  colours  dight, 

Display’d  in  form,  in  feature,  and  in  name, 

The  lively  deeds  of  many  a  faithful  knight ; 

And  told  of  many  a  hardly  foughten  fight 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


103 


Against  the  heathen  host  in  gory  field  ; 

Of  those  who  reap  renown  with  falchion  bright, 

Or  list  in  wTar  the  ponderous  axe  to  wield, 

Or  press  the  courser’s  flank  with  spear  and  shield. 

XIX. 

The  stripling  conqueror  of  a  giant  foe, 

Beloved  of  Heaven,  was  David  there  to  see, 

And  wallowing  wide  the  headless  bulk  below ; 

And  there  the  self-devoted  Maccabee, 

Content  in  death  to  leave  his  Israel  free, 

Sustain’d  unmoved  the  tower’d  elephant, 

With  javelin  planted  firm,  and  bended  knee; 

And  grimly  smiling  on  the  monster’s  vaunt, 

Slaying,  was  nobly  slain,  a  martyr  militant. 

XX. 

There  too,  she  mark’d,  in  blood-red  colours  writ, 

The  Christian  conqueror  of  British  line, 

Who  seem’d  aloft  in  golden  car  to  sit, 

Rais’d  on  the  ruins  of  an  idol  shrine, 

Lord  of  the  earth,  resistless  Constantine ! 

And  blazing  high  above  his  chosen  head, 

The  meteor  cross  shed  forth  its  light  divine : 

That  that  great  dragon  shook  with  guilty  dread, 

And  all  his  countless  host  from  forth  the  heaven  fled. 

XXI. 

Nor  less  her  own  paternal  Carmelide, 

With  arms  begirt,  aud  warrior  faces  round; 

Nor  less  the  queen  with  greedy  wonder  eyed 
The  giant  form,  whose  uncouth  mantle,  bound 
With  beards  of  captive  monarchs,  swept  the  ground. 


104 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Vain-glorious  Ryence  !  him  the  Christian  host 

With  plunging  spears  in  Mersey’s  current  drown’d 
Who,  wading  through  the  river  depths,  almost 
Had  stemm’d  th’  indignant  wave,  and  reach’d  the  farther 
coast. 

XXII. 

But  oh,  what  rage  of  war  !  what  ghastly  blows  ! 

Where  silver  Avon  ran  with  sanguine  hue ; 

And  fierce  in  fight  the  youth  of  Denmark  rose, 

And  Arthur’s  strength  his  deadly  falchion  drew. 

Her  own  brave  lord  Ganora  there  might  view, 

As  ’mid  the  meaner  trees  a  kingly  oak ; 

How  fast  the  fire-sparks  from  his  armour  flew ; 

How  from  his  courser’s  panting  side  the  smoke ; 

How  high  he  bare  his  targe,  how  rose  at  every  stroke  ! 

XXIII. 

Around  the  king,  behind  him  and  before, 

Red  ran  the  tide  of  death,  and  dark  the  throng ; 

And  Merlin  there  his  dragon  standard  bore, 

Scattering  dismay  the  mailbd  ranks  among ; 

A  living  standard,  whose  bifork^d  tongue 
Hiss’d  with  strange  magic,  and  its  brazen  eye 
Darted  pernicious  rays  of  poison  strong ; 

Als  were  its  threatful  spires  uplifted  high, 

And  wings  of  molten  brass  outspread  in  air  to  fly. 

XXIV. 

Strange  was  it  to  behold  the  enchanter’s  mien, 

Whose  robe  of  various  colours  wildly  roll’d, 

And  naked  limbs  in  battle  seldom  seen, 

And  magic  girdle  all  of  graven  gold, 

In  uncouth  wise  his  prophet  frenzy  told. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


105 


Swart  was  his  visage,  and  his  raven  hair 

Hung  loose  and  long  in  many  a  tangled  fold ; 

And  his  large  eyeballs,  with  unearthly  stare, 

Flash’d  on  the  withering  host  a  wild  portentous  glare. 

XXV. 

Fast  by  that  fiend-born  sire  was  Gawain  placed, 

Gawain  the  gentlest  of  the  knightly  throng, 

With  ladies’  love,  and  minstrel  honour  graced, 

The  good,  the  brave,  the  beautiful,  the  strong ; 

And,  breathing  fury,  Modred  spurr’d  along  ; — - 
Sir  Modred,  sternest  of  the  table  round, 

Injurious-  chief,  who  reck’d  nor  right  nor  wrong  ; 

Yet  forward  in  his  suzerain’s  service  found, 

And  next  to  Arthur’s  self  for  princely  lineage  crown’d. 

XXVI. 

But  who  is  he  ?  the  chief  whose  single  might 
Girt  by  the  Saxon  host  in  desperate  ring, 

With  slender  lance  redeems  the  reeling  fight, 

While  death  and  conquest,  poised  on  dubious  wing, 
Hung  o’er  the  strife  his  valour  witnessing  ? 

Cleft  is  his  helmet,  and  his  sanguine  cheer 

And  beardless  cheeks  betoken  manhood’s  spring. 

Ah  well-known  glance,  ah  form  to  memory  dear, 

It  is  the  nameless  youth  !  it  is  the  forestere ! 

XXVII. 

Was  it  a  dream  !  her  unassured  eye 

Paused  on  the  form  awhile — awhile  withdrew ; 

She  chafes  her  lids  their  perfect  sense  to  try ; 

It  was  no  dream  !  alas,  too  wrell  she  knew 
The  locks  of  auburn  and  the  eyes  of  blue, 


106 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And,  her  own  work,  the  scarf  and  broider’d  vest ! 

And  her  ears  tingled,  and  a  death-like  dew 
Through  her  cold  marrow  thrill’d  and  quivering  breast, 
And  suffocating  sobs  the  abortive  shriek  supprest. 

XXVIII. 

When  overpast  was  that  strong  agony, 

And  doubt  and  fear  resumed  their  blended  reign, 

She  on  that  arras  bent  her  frenzied  eye, 

And  line  retraced,  and  well-known  line  again. 

“  His  locks  were  auburn,  these  a  darker  grain ; 

Fair  is  yon  knight,  yet  sure  than  him  less  fair, 

Yon  shield,  yon  crownet  mark  a  princely  strain, 

And  sterner  seems  that  brow.”  Ah,  fruitless  care ! 

That  lip !  those  eyes !  that  scarf!  his  pictured  self  is  there ! 

XXIX. 

“  And  art  thou  he  ?”  for  o’er  his  conquering  head, 

In  Gothic  letters  all  of  silver  bright, 

That  chieftain’s  woven  name  Ganora  read, 

“And  art  thou  he,  thy  sovereign’s  darling  knight, 

The  wise  in  court,  the  matchless  in  the  fight, 

Strength  of  our  Logrian  land  in  danger’s  hour ! 

0  Lancelot !  (if  thus  I  read  aright 
Thy  lordly  style,)  ’mid  pomp,  and  wealth,  and  power, 

Full  soon  hast  thou  forgot  thy  humble  village  flower !” 

XXX. 

“Yet  Arthur  cull’d  that  flower  !”  (a  female  ire 
Flush’d  in  her  cheek,  and  sparkled  in  her  eye) 

“  Yet  Albion’s  lord  could  this  poor  form  desire ; 

And  thou  shalt  view  thy  rustic  Emily 
In  pomp  of  queenly  state  enthroned  high  ! 


*1 


mma 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


107 


Then,  Cadwal,  shall  thy  soul  new  pangs  endure, 

And  in  each  slighted  charm  new  grace  descry, 

And,  scorn’d  in  turn — Ah  passion  hard  to  cure ! 

Break,  break  my  tempted  heart  while  yet  my  will  is  pure.” 

XXXI. 

Thus  raved  she  long,  till  from  her  throbbing  breast 
Exhausted  passion  loosed  his  iron  sway, 

And  holier  thoughts  her  struggling  soul  possest, 

And  that  pure  chalice  with  its  saintly  ray, 

And  that  still  chapel  turned  her  heart  to  pray. 

So  prostrate  at  the  marble  altar’s  base, 

With  floating  locks  and  folded  hands  she  lay ; 

And  moistening  with  her  tears  the  sacred  place, 

Clung  to  the  silver  cross  with  Magdalen  embrace. 

XXXII. 

So  by  that  heavenly  toil  re-comforted, 

She,  slowly  rising  from  the  sacred  ground, 

Dried  her  moist  eye,  with  streaming  anguish  red, 

And  those  loose  locks  in  decent  fillet  bound, 

And  cast,  in  matron  guise,  her  mantle  round, 

And  forth  she  went ;  yet,  ere  the  morrow’s  light, 

She  of  her  maidens  fit  occasion  found 
To  ask  the  lineage  of  “  that  absent  knight, 

Who  now  in  Albion’s  war  fought  for  his  suzerain’s  right. 

XXXIII. 

“  He  of  the  Lake,  whose  empty  seat  was  placed, 

And  in  the  hall  his  banner  waving  wide, 

A  golden  hound  with  chequer’d  collar  graced, 

And  the  broad  field  with  seeming  verdure  dyed?” 

To  whom  the  young  Ygwerna  swift  replied, 


108 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  arched  brows  and  finger  pointing  sly, 

“  Oh,  who  shall  dare  to  praise  that  chief  of  pride, 
Who,  when  the  jealous  Gwendolen  is  nigh, 

Whose  proffer’d  love  he  meets  with  so  cold  courtesy?” 

XXXIV. 

“  Peevish  Ygwerna  !”  Gwendolen  rejoin’d, 

“  By  forged  tales  to  shroud  thy  secret  care ! 

Who  more  than  thou  the  myrtle  branch  has  twined, 
And  ring’d  with  flowery  wreath  his  auburn  hair  ? 
Ah,  wooing  vainly  spent !  some  absent  fair 
Has  o’er  the  warrior  hung  her  silken  chain ; 

Witness  the  purple  scarf  he  loves  to  wear, 

Witness  his  wanderings  o’er  the  nightly  plain, 
Witness  Ygwerna’s  love  and  Lancelot’s  disdain !” 

XXXV. 

Ganora  sigh’d ;  but  all  unmark’d  the  sigh 
As  Gwendolen  pursued  her  eager  word  ! 

“  Oh,  lady  mine,  long  were  the  history 

To  reckon  up  the  praise  of  that  young  lord, 

In  Logris  and  in  distant  Gaul  adored, 

And  sprung  from  elder  kings  of  Brutus’  race ; 

But  changeful  fate,  and  war  with  ruthless  sword 
Could  ancient  Tribles’  goodly  towers  deface, 

And  poppies  wave  the  head  in  the  tall  banner’s  place. 

XXXVI. 

“  When  bloody  Claudas  sack’d  the  Armoric  shore, 
The  sire  of  Lancelot  his  sceptre  held, 

For  wealth  renown’ d,  for  virtuous  wisdom  more, 

And  the  fair  peace  of  honourable  eld. 

But  the  base  rabble  from  his  rule  repell’d, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


109 


And  ancient  Ban,  no  longer  prompt  to  bear 
(As  when,  at  Carohaise,  the  foe  he  quell’d) 

The  conquering  falchion  and  the  pennon’d  spear, 

Fled  from  his  dangerous  throne  to  wood  and  desert  drear 

XXXVII. 

“  There,  wretched  sire,  by  daily  wrath  pursued, 

Himself,  his  infant  heir,  and  beauteous  dame, 

A  shelter  seeking  in  the  solitude, 

To  a  wild  cave  with  painful  travel  came, 

Where  toil  and  grief  opprest  his  hoary  frame : 

A  little  space  with  arms  to  Heaven  spread, 

A  little  space,  on  cities  wrapt  in  flame ; 

And  ravaged  fields,  he  gazed,  but  nothing  said, 

Then  in  his  Helen’s  arms  sank  down  his  dying  head. 

XXXVIII. 

“  She,  chafing  his  cold  brows,  and  with  her  tears 
Moistening  in  vain  the  breast  was  ever  true, 

Nor  space,  nor  leisure  found  for  other  fears ; 

But  when  her  much-loved  lord  deceased  she  knew, 

All  wildly  frantic  thro’  the  desert  flew, 

Reckless  of  him  who,  ’mid  the  bushes  laid, 

Her  sleeping  babe,  a  faery’s  pity  drew ; 

Who,  haply  wandering  through  the  twilight  glade, 

Stoop’d  from  her  phantom  steed,  and  home  the  prize  con¬ 
vey’d. 

XXXIX. 

“  Beneath  the  hollow  ^waters  is  her  home, 

Upbuilt  with  arched  waves  of  crystal  cold, 

Where  never  wight  of  mortal  seed  should  come. 

Yet  did  she  there  the  beauteous  infant  hold, 

And  train’d  in  knightly  lore  and  pastimes  bold  ; 


ntrnt  ■  unwi 


110  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  luckless  Helen,  dame  disconsolate, 

When  late  her  loss  returning  reason  told, 

Sought  the  sad  shelter  of  a  convent  grate, 

And  wept  with  live-long  grief  her  boy’s  untimely  fate. 

XL. 

“  Him,  when  his  vigorous  youth  was  ripe  for  war, 

And  downy  cheek  was  cloth’d  in  darker  shade, 

On  airy  wheels  and  dragon-yoked  car, 

To  Arthur’s  court  his  elfin  nurse  convey’d, 

In  polish’d  arms  of  maiden  white  array’d, 

And  silver  shield  as  princely  youth  became  ; 

Who  since  untam’d,  unrivall’d,  undismay’d, 

In  tourney  strife  and  war’s  illustrious  game, 

Has  borne  from  every  knight  the  foremost  meed  of  fame. 


XLI. 


“All  otherwise  I  deem,”  Ganora  cried, 

“  Nor  him  account  the  best  and  bravest  knight 
Who,  wrapt  in  sordid  gain  or  warrior  pride, 

Is  dead  to  ladies’  pain  and  love’s  delight.” 

“ Ah  who,”  said  Gwendolen,  “shall  read  aright 
The  close-kept  secret  of  a  hero’s  love  ! 

Yet  some  have  said,  in  magic  beauty  bright, 

His  elfin  dame  has  power  his  mind  to  move, 

And  urge  his  pensive  steps  along  the  twilight  grove. 

XLII. 


A  livid  blush  the  queen’s  pale  face  o’erspread, 
“Yet,  yet  aread,  where  is  that  faery’s  wan?” 
“Ah  who  shall  tell  her  haunt,”  the  maiden  said, 
“  Who  in  the  desert  water  dwells  alone, 

Or  under  hollow  hill  or  cavern’ d  stone  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Ill 


Yet  beauteous  Derwent  claims  her  chiefest  grace.” 

Ganora  heard,  but  answer  made  she  none, 

And  with  her  kerchief  shrouding  close  her  face, 

Broke  from  th’  unfinish’d  tale  and  sadly  left  the  place. 

****** 

****** 


CARMEN  SiECULARE. 

A  PRIZE  POEM. 

Recited  at  Oxfokd,  1801. 


Felices  Britonum  curas,  atque  addita  vitae 
Commoda,  et  inventas  artes,  bellique  triumphos, 
Expediam:  Yos,  Angliacae  clarissima  gentis 
Lumina,  queis  mundi  rerumque  arcana  retexit 
Ipsa  volens  Natura  ;  et  vos,  qui  martia  passi 
Vulnera,  pro  patria  justis  cecidistis  in  armis, 
Magnanimi  heroes  !  vestras  date  floribus  urnas 
Spargere,  nec  nostrae  conamina  temnite  musae ! 

Sit  mihi  fas  audita  loqui,  sit  facta  referre, 
Tardaque  bis  denis  volventia  tempora  lustris 
Respicere ;  humanae  licet  aequora  turbida  vitae 
Musa  gemat  circumspectans,  secumque  revolvat 
Moesta  hominum  scelera,  et  parvo  sub  pectore  fluctus 
Jrarum  ingentes,  et  corda  oblita  futuri. 


112 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Inde  graves  nasci  luctus,  et  bella  per  orbem, 

Et  dirse  passim  caedes,  et  mille  doloris, 

Mille  mali  facies,  fuso  Discordia  crine 
Funeream  accendens  taedam,  insatiata  cruore 
Yindicta,  et  desolatas  bacchata  per  urbes 
Ambitio,  et  Culpae  merito  comes  addita  Poena. 

Nam  Pater  omnipotens  ignotis  legibus  orbem 
Temperat,  et  denso  noctis  velatus  amictu, 

Sceptra  tenet,  nobis,  credo,  neque  machina  rerum 
Tota  patet,  certive  arcana  volumnia  fati. 

Haud  tamen,  haud  nostrum  est  rerum  alte  exquirero 
causas ; 

Tantum  adeo  aversamur  opus,  magis  acta  referre, 

Et  patriam  aggredimur  laudem,  vocat  altior  armis, 

Altior  ingenio  Britannia,  saecla  parentum 
Exsuperans  fama,  et  majoribus  inclyta  coeptis. 

Depictas  alii  voces,  Cadmeia  signa  ;* 

Et  Batavumf  curas,  calami  quae  taedia  primum, 

Et  scriptae  docu^re  moras  odisse  tabellae ; 

Mirando  ductas  alii  magnete  Carinas, 

Nitratosque  ignes  celebrent,  imitataque  Divum 
Fulmina,  vim  quorum  contra  nihil  ipsa  valeret 
Lorica  iEacidae,  aut  clypei  septemplicis  orbes; 

At  coeli  docuisse  vias,  quo  concita  motu 
Sydera  agant  certa  nocturnas  lege  choreas ; 


*  Letters,  which  are  generally  believed  to  have  been  introduced  into  Europe  by  Cadmus, 
f  The  discovery  of  printing  (however  the  fraud  of  John  Faustus  may  have  transferred 
a  part  of  the  praise  to  Mentz)  appears  to  belong  to  Holland. 


i 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


113 


Qui  cursus  anni ;  quo  sol  moderamine  flectat 
Errantes  Stellas,  medii  ad  praetoria  mundi 
Regius  ipse  sedens ;  coeundi  quanta  cupido, 

Ordine  quaeque  suo  teneat ;  quo  turbidus  aestu 
Invadat  terram  fluctus,  fugiatque  vicissim, 

Luna,  tuum  comitatus  iter ;  quae  splendida  lucis 
Materies  ;  septemque  Iris  trahat  unde  colores ; 

Laus  erit  haec  saltern,  nostroque  haec  gloria  saeclo. 

Quanquam  etenim  baud  nostris  illuxit  prima  diebue 
Vis  animi,  Newtone,  tui,  et  felicior  aetas 
Ingenii  eximios  jactet  nascentis  honores  ; 

Sed  vidisse  tamen,  sed  et  audivisse  docentera 
Te,  decus  0  patriae  !  Naturae  magne  sacerdos  ! 
Contigit  huic  saeclo,  et  circumflevisse  sepulchrum. 

% 

Nec  vero,  interea,  nobis  non  utilis  unda,* 
Suppositis  flammis  modicoque  accensa  calore, 

Mirum  adeo  tulit  auxilium,  stat  turris  ad  auras, 
Sulphurea  nebula,  et  fumosis  cincta  tenebris ; 

Pendet  abhinc  vastamque  extrudit  in  aera  molem 
Ferratis  trabibus  centumque  innexa  catenis 
Machina,  quin  subtus  calefacta  saevit  aquae  vis 
Alta  petens,  gelidam  tecti  de  culmine  nympham 
Quae  simul  accepit  gremio,  condensa  residit, 
Desertumque  super  spatium  et  vacua  atria  linquit, 

Nec  mora, — praecipiti  tendens  in  inania  cursu, 

Irruit,  et  portam  obstantem  circumfluus  aether 
Deprimit,  hinc  motu  alterno  surgitque  caditque 


10* 


*  The  steam-engine. 


Li 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

% 

Libra  ingens,  molesque  graves  impostaque  temmt 
Pondera  ;  quin  tali  liumentis  penetralia  terrae 
Auxilio  ingredimur  qua  divitis  ima  metalli 
Vena  latet,  tali  domitum  molimine  ferrura 
In  varias  cogit  formas,  fingitque  premendo 
Malleus  ;  at  veniet  tempus,  cum  viribus  lllis 
Adverso  tardas  urgebit  flumine  cymbas 
Navita,  et  obstantes  scindet  sine  remige  fluctus. 

Sed  neque  nos  ignota  latent  tua  tenuia  legna, 
Aura  levis  !  quantos  ibi  nostri  mira  triumphos 
Yis  tulit  ingenii !  lustratam  navibus  aethram, 
Littoribus-longe  patriis  terraque  relicta, 

Vidimus,  et  magni  superantes  moenia  mundi 
Icarias  homines  ausos  contemnere  poenas. 

Quin  et  scire  datur  quo  crebris  ignibus  aerf 
Innocuum  micet,  ardentem  quo  fulminis  alam 
Ducat  docta  manus,  certoque  in  tramite  flammam 
Dirigat ;  agnosco  haec  nostris-  concessa  diebus 
Arcana,  et  longos  proavis  ignota  per  annos . 
Nonne  vides !  nimborum  inter  coelique  tumultus, 
Prsescripto  celeres  concurrunt  ordine  flammse, 
Porrigit  excelsum  qua  ferrea  virga  tridentem 
Servatrix  ;  tutis  assurgunt  templa  columms 
Interea,  regumque  domus  atque  aurea  tecta. 

Hinc  etiam  variis  aptat  medicamina  morbisj 
Naturse  expertus  sapiens,  renovatque  trementum 


7 Though  the  balloon  itself  be  a  French  invention,  yet  the  discoveries  which  gave  rise 

to  it  are  most  of  them  British.  pwtricitv 

4  '|’he  conductor.  +  Flactucuy 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


116 


Corpora  fracta  senum,  et  tristi  languentia  nocte 
Lumina ;  jam  vitreo  circumvolvente  cylindro 
Igneus  exsiluit  vigor,  et  penetrabilis  artus 
Percurrit  calor,  et  veiiis  se  immiscuit  imis. 

Quid  referam  servata  undis,  ereptaque  letho* 
Corpora,  cum  saevis  Acherontis  faucibus  liaesit 
Eluctans  anima,  et  vultus  et  livida  circum 
Tempora  diriguit  concreto  flumine  sanguis  ? 

Atque  ea  dum  in  patrio  molimina  tanta  movemus 
Rite  solo,  interea  baud  segnes  aliena  per  arva 
Insequimur  famam,  meritosque  augemus  honores. 
Yos  fortunati !  primum  quibus  ausa  carina 
Spernere  caeruleos  fines,  et  limina  rerum 
Antiqua,  et  magno  nova  quaerere  littora  ponto ! 
Talibus  incoeptis  olirn  tua  flumina,  Amazon, 
Inventique  Cubae  scopuli,  Gyanaequef  paludes, 
Yisaque  thuriferisj  pulcherrima  Florida  pratis. 

Non  tamen  Hesperius  ductor,§  non  classis  Ibera, 
Non  quos  bellipotens  emisit  Lisboa  nautae, 
Laudibus  Angliaci  certent  ducis,  ille  sonantes 
Annyanis||  scopulos  inter,  glaciataque  ponti 
Claustra  viam  tenuit,  non  ilium  terruit  Arctos 
Parrhasis,  atque  suis  Boreas  saevissimus  oris. 

Nic  minus  immites  fluctus  et  littora  vidit 


*  The  Humane  Society, 
t  So  is  Guiana  written  by  Fracastorius. 

j  According  to  the  Spanish  voyagers,  Florida  was  so  called  from  the  odour  which  filled 
the  air  on  the  approach  of  the  ships  to  land. 

3  Columbus. 

1  The  Japanese  name  for  the  Straits  of  Behring. 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Australi  vicina  polo,  qua  frigida  pandit 
Caeruleos  Maloina*  sinus,  atque  altera  nostris 
Subjecta  imperiis,  terrarumque  ultima  Thule. t 
Quern  non  dira  fames  auri,  non  impia  duxit 
Ambitio,  aut  saevae  fallax  pietatis  imago ; 

Sed  patriae  divinus  amor ;  sed  vivida  virtus 
Impulit,  et  merits  laudis  generosa  cupido. 

Nec  lustrare  vias  tantum  tractusque  latentes 
JEquoris  audaces  jussit  Britannia  puppes  ; 

Scilicet  oceani  imperium  invictumque  tridentem . 
Classe  virisque  potens,  tenet,  aeternumque  tenebit 
Ilia,  maris  regina ;  en  !  Plata  sonantibus  undis, 
Ultimus,  en,  Daonas,^  et  fulvae  Tigris  arena 
Fundit  opes  varias,  praedaeque  assueta  Malaya 
Submisso  nostras  veneratur  acinace  leges. 

Quid  tantum  memorem  imperium,  quid  subdita  regna 
iEthiopum,  primoque  rubentia  littora  sole, 

Et  quibus  assiduo  curru  jam  lenior  oris 
Effundit  fessae  tandem  vis  sera  diei  ? 

Nobis,  quos  rapido  scindit  Laurentius  amne 
Felices  parent  campi,  et  qua  plurima  Ganges 
Regna  lavat,  postis  armis  conterrita  pacem 
Birma  petit,  gens  dura  virum  petiere  Marattse. 

Quid  Javse  referam  montes,  quid  saxa  Mysorae? 
Quseque  nimis  tepido  consurgis  proxima  soli, 
Taprobane,  laetasque  tuas,  Caffraria,  vites  ? 


*  The  Spanish  name  for  Falkland’s  Islands. 

+  go  called  by  Captain  Cook,  as  being  the  most  southern  known  land. 
I  The  river  of  Ava. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


117 


Tuque  etiam  immerites  Gallorum  erepta  catenis, 
Anglorum  laeto  fluitantia  signa  triumpho 
Vidisti  tandem,  Melite  !  tuque,  inclyta  Calpe  ! 
Firma  manes,  nostris  dudum  decorata  tropseis, 

Quae  rupe  Herculea,  quse  milite  tuta  Britanno 
Hispanumque  minas  et  inania  despicis  anna. 
Interea,  qugecunque  viam  tenuere  per  undas, 

(Sseva  licet  nostro  minitetur  Gallia  regno, 

Et  conjuratis  Europse  ferveat  armis) 

Submittunt  humiles  nobis  vexilla  carinse. 

Nec  tamen  has  tantum  meruit  Britannia  laudes, 
Magna  armis, — major  pietate  ; — hinc  Ille*  remotos 
(Hie,  decus  nostrum,  et  meritae  pars  optima  famae) 
Lustravit  populos,  et  dissita  regna  tyrannum, 
Panderet  ut  moestas  arces  invitaque  Phoebo 
Limina,  qu&  nigris  late  sonuere  cavernis 
Assidui  gemitus  et  iniqui  pondera  ferri. 

Hinc  etiam  Lybicoj*  consurgunt  littore  turres, 
Nostraeque  incultis  monstrantur  gentibus  artes, 
Hesperidum  scopulos  ultra  et  deserta  Saharae 
Foeda  situ:  nec  longa  dies,  cum  servus  iniqua 
Vincula  rumpat  ovans,  et  pictas  Gambia  puppes 
Et  nova  arenosis  miretur  moenia  ripis  ! 

0  patria  !  0  felix  nimium  !  seu  pace  volentes 
Alma  regas  populos  et  justa  lege  feroces 
Arbitra  compescas,  seu  belli  tela  corusces 
Fulminea  metuenda  manu;  tu,  maxima,  ponto, 

Tu  circumfusis  victrix,  dominaberis  undis  ! 


*  Howard. 


f  Sierra  Leone. 


118 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Cincta  etenim  patria  frondentia  tempora  quercu 
Te  comitem  adjunxit,  nostroque  in  littore  sedem 
Aurea  Libertas  posuit,  non  ilia  furentes 
Sueta  animos,  coecique  incendere  pectora  vulgi ; 
Qualis  Sarmaticos  olim  baccbata  per  agros 
Effera, — sanguinea, — aut  qualem  nunc  Gallia  plorat 
Maternis  sparsam  lacrymis  et  csede  suorum  : — 

At  populis,  Alurede,  tuis  quae  Candida  primum 
Illuxit,  coeli  soboles,  quae  saeva  Britannum 
Fraenavit  corda  et  toryis  metuenda  tyrannis 
Jura  dedit,  longos  illinc  deducta  per  annos 
Imperia,  et  trino  concordia  foedere  regna. 

Marlburios  testor  cineres,  effusaque  Galli 
Agmina  (cum  luctu  pallens  Lodoicus  et  ira, 

Undique  disjectas  acies  foedataque  fievit 
Lilia,  vix  media  demum  securus  in  urbe,) 

Quid  Libertatis  potuit  divinitus  ardens 
Flamma,  quid  invicti  testor  potuere  Britanni ! 

Nec  jam  magnorum  proles  oblita  parentum 
Nascimur ;  haud  adeo  divinus  pectoris  ardor, 
Martiaque  edormit  virtus  ; — Tua  flumina,  Nile, 
Testor,  quasque  Tagus  dives  devolvit  arenas ! 
Scilicet  et  fractas  vidisti,  Texela,*  classes, 

Et  spes  abruptas,  atque  irrita  tela  tuorum  ! 

Quid  freeram  claras  victrici  classe  calendas, 

Qua  viridem  Armoricam  inter  Dumnoniaque  arva 
Hesperio  resonant  Uxantia  littora  flucta? 


*  Sic  d’Anville. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


116 


Cura  spreto  malesana  Deo  totumque  per  orbem 
Gallia,  coeca,  furens,  cunctas  sibi  subdere  gentes 
Sperabat,  solioque  sacros  detrudere  Reges, 
Reppulit  ipsa  suo  venientem  littore  pestem 
Anglia,  et  his  saltern  vetuit  consistere  terris. 
Ergo  inter  medias  Europse  illrnsa  ruinas 
Constitit,  haud  rerum  tantis  labefacta  procellis, 
Devictos  inter  populos,  et  diruta  late 
Imperia  :  has  coluit  Pietas  conterrita  sedes, 

Has  antiqua  Fides  ; — atque,  0,  ni  tristia  fati 
Jura  vetent,  orbis  primum  cohibere  tyrannos 
Nostrum  erit,  eversoque  iterum  succurrere  saeclo. 


FRAGMENTS 

OP 

THE  MASQUE  OF  GWENDOLEN. 

*  *  *  * 

Enter  two  Goblins  bearing  a  casket. 

Gwendolen.  What  forms  are  these  ? 

Goblin.  Spirits  of  nether  earth 

Are  we,  and  servants  to  the  mighty  Merlin, 

From  whom  we  bear  these  treasures  to  his  bride. 


120 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Or  ere  the  raven  twice  hath  flapt  her  wing 
He  will  himself  be  here. 

Gwendolen,  Good  angels  guard  me  ! 

Enter  two  Sylphs  and  two  Sea  Nymphs. 

SONG. 

Nymphs  of  air  and  ancient  sea, 

Bridal  gifts  we  bring  to  thee  ! 

Lo,  these  plumes  of  rich  device, 

Pluck’d  from  birds  of  paradise  ! 

Lo,  these  drops  of  essence  rare, 

Shook  from  a  wand’ring  meteor’s  hair! 
Nymphs  of  air  and  ancient  sea, 

Such  the  gifts  we  bring  to  thee  ! 

Take  these  shells,  approach  them  near, 

And  they  shall  murmur  in  thine  ear 
Tunes  that  lull  the  slumbering  sea 
More  than  mermaid’s  harmony  ! 

Take  these  pearls,  no  diving-slave 
Drags  their  like  from  ocean  cave,— 

Nymphs  of  air  and  ancient  sea, 

Such  can  only  bring  to  thee. 

Enter  two  Genii  of  Fire  with  a  vase. 

First  G-enius.  Loveliest  of  mortal  mould !  distant  we 
kneel, 

Lest  our  hot  breath  should  mar  thy  snowy  skin, 

Or  scorch  thy  raven  locks  !  We  are  of  fire 


m 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  swarthy  ministers,  whose  active  heat 
Is  as  the  soul  of  earth  and  sea  and  air ; 

Who  sow  the  seeds  of  gold,  who  give  the  diamond 
Its  eye  of  flame,  and  wake  the  carbuncle 
To  rival  day.  Of  such  strange  alchemy 
We  bring  thee  tokens ;  and  before  thy  feet 
Bow  down  our  crisped  heads,  and  in  the  dust 

Abase  our  terrors  l 

***** 

***** 

Merlin .  Am  I  proud,  who  lay 

Mine  empire  at  thy  feet  ?  All  thou  hast  seen 
Are  but  the  least  of  wonders.  Toiling  fiends 
Shall  sweat  to  work  thy  bidding,  and  their  claws 
Rend  from  the  greedy  earth  its  buried  treasure, 

And  drag  the  deep  for  thee.  The  sylphs  of  air 
Shall  fan  thy  slumber,  and  their  viewless  harps 
Pour  on  thy  waking  ear  strange  melody. 

The  elfin  nations,  with  fresh  herbs  and  flowers, 

Shall  in  thy  chambers  keep  perennial  spring ; 

And  the  wild  mermaid  sleek,  with  coral  comb 
Thy  dark  and  perfumed  tresses.  Seek’st  thou  more 
More  is  in  Merlin’s  power  I  Be  thou  my  bride, 

And  I  will  place  thee  on  a  regal  throne 
Of  solid  adamant,  hill  above  hill, 

Ten  furlongs  high,  to  match  whose  altitude 
Plinlimmon  fails,  and  Idris’  stony  chair  . 

Sinks  like  an  infant’s  bauble;  there,  enshrin’d 
A  queen  and  goddess,  shall  the  elements 


122 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Wait  on  thee,  and  the  countless  multitude 
Of  Genii  worship  thee  supreme  in  hell ! 

I  pause  for  thy  reply. 

Gwendolen.  This  then  it  is : 

Thy  power  I  know  not,  but  thine  art  I  know 
For  most  unholy,  and  thy  person  hateful ! 

I  own  my  folly,  wTith  remorse  I  own  it, 

Which  play’d  with  such  a  visitor ;  but  mine  ears 
Drank  in  thy  wisdom, — and  it  soothed  my  pride 
To  see  the  powers  of  magic  tax’d  for  me, 

And  the  strong  features  of  a  face  like  thine 
Relaxing  in  my  presence  !  This  forgive  me  ! 

My  last  request !  Nay  look  not  thus  on  me, 

Nor  press  my  hand !  I  may  not  dally  longer. 
***** 

Merlin.  Ah,  do  not  raise  the  fiend  within  my  soul 
Nor  arm,  sweet  petulance,  against  thyself 
My  worser  nature !  In  this  rugged  breast 
The  heart  which  throbs  in  Etna’s  earthy  fire, 

Which,  unprovok’d  and  slumbering  in  its  strength, 
Rejoiceth  Ceres,  and  with  fresher  flowers 
To  Enna’s  valley  lures  back  Proserpine: 

But,  if  it  burst  its  bounds,  hath  hellish  mettle 
Which  is  most  dangerous  !  I  was  not  made 
To  soothe  a  lady’s  scorn,  or  woo  her  lattice, 

What  time  the  cold  moon  on  her  garden  bower 
Flickers  in  silver  whiteness,  and  the  winds 
Blend  with  mine  amorous  harp’s  sad  lullaby. 

My  love  or  vengeance  must  be  gratified. — 

Wherefore,  proud  dame,  I  say  to  thee,  Be  wise ! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  123 

In  love  unmatch’d,  in  hate  unmatchable, 

I  have  done  that  ere  now  which  mine  own  eyes 
Have  wept  to  look  upon.  My  father’s  spirit 
Is  blent  with  mine,  and  schools  me  to  such  horrors  ! 
Wherefore,  I  charge  thee  as  thou  lov’st  thyself, 

Be  timely  wise  !  One  little  moment  more, 

I  feel  the  demon  rush  into  my  soul, 

And  prayer  will  then  he  vain!  Be  wise !  Be  wise! 

Gwendolen.  Oh  horror,  horror  !  Oh  for  leprosy 
To  scathe  this  fatal  form  !  oh  that  the  veil 
Wherewith  I  shroud  me  from  thy  dreaded  glance, 

Were  some  wild  thicket,  some  brake-tangled  wood 
Where  this  poor  head  might  shelter, — where  no  foot 
Of  man  approacheth  ;  that  myself  were  made 
A  thing  of  loathing  and  of  natural  horror, 

Such  as  is  pain  to  look  on ! — better  so 

Than  thus  to  tempt  thy  wooing :  take  me,  throw  me 

To  the  wild  boar,  or  where  the  lioness 

Seeks  for  her  brindled  young  their  human  banquet ; 

Yea,  rather  marry  me  to  death,  and  make 
My  bridal  bed  within  the  sepulchre, 

Than  bid  me  mount  with  thee  thy  guilty  throne ! 

Merlin.  Thy  wish  be  on  thine  head,  and  thine  own  curse 
Feed  on  thee  till  it  waste  thee  !  Exquisite  maid ; 

Ev’n  in  the  bitterness  of  my  revenge 
I  love  thy  graceful  passion  !  But  my  sire 
Whose  flames  now  burn  within  me,  goads  my  purpose 
To  wittier  malice  !  Shroud  thee  in  iliy  veil, 

Oh  my  fair  enemy ; — for  that  withdrawn, 

Thy  face  shall  never  win  a  suitor  more ! 


i 


1 24 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Hear,  spirits,  hear ! — 


[  Thunder 


I  fix  on  thee 


Curses,  curses,  one,  two,  three ! 

Fouler  than  a  grandame  ape, 

Be  thy  features  and  thy  shape ; 

Be  thy  face,  so  fresh  and  fair, 

Worse  than  those  of  furies  are  ; 

Be  thy  snowy  forehead  dark, 

And  rougher  than  the  maple  bark ; 

In  the  greenwood  range  alone 
Thy  disastrous  lot  to  moan ; 

Lion  wild  and  bristly  boar, 

Let  them  fly  thy  face  before ; 

And  the  wolves  that  round  thee  prowl, 
More  from  fear  than  hunger  howl ; 

As  a  thing  most  scorn’d  and  hated, 
And  with  demons  only  mated, 

Every  kindly  creature  shun  thee  : 

And  this  burden  be  upon  thee, 

Till  a  youth  of  form  divine, 

Sprung  from  Brutus’  ancient  line, 

Of  beauty  careless,  and  delight, 

Shall  woo  thee  to  the  nuptial  rite ; 
Shall  his  arms  around  thee  twine, 

Shall  his  warm  lips  press  to  thine, 

And  sign  thee  with  the  holy  sign  ! 


* 

♦ 


[ Thunder .  Merlin  sinks 


* 

* 


* 

* 


* 

* 


* 

♦ 


* 

♦ 


MISCELLANEOUS.  125 

[Gwendolen  asleep  as  transformed  by  Merlin.  Three  Fairies 
strewing  flowers  and  leaves  over  her . 

song. 

Rest  thee  on  this  mossy  pillow 
Till  the  morning  light! 

Softly  wave  this  whispering  willow 
O’er  thy  bed  to-night ! 

Every  mortal  grief  forsake  thee 
As  our  drowsy  spells  o’ertake  thee, 

Nought  from  blessed  sleep  awake  thee 
Till  the  morning  light ! 

Enter  Titania. 

Titania.  Spirits,  well  done  !  for  not  of  ruthless  mood 
Are  we,  the  rangers  of  the  nightly  wood. 

Where  found  ye  this  sad  maid? 

First  Fairy.  Down  in  yon  dell 

We  found  her  where  the  moonbeams  brightest  fell ; 

For  Cynthia  mark’d  her  with  benignant  eye, 

And  mourn’d,  methought,  a  virgin’s  misery. 

We  mark’d  her  too,  with  what  intense  despair 
She  scatter’d  on  the  winds  her  raven  hair, 

Invoking  death  :  then  with  accurst  intent 
Of  wilder  madness,  to  the  lake  she  went ; 

But,  bending  o’er  its  mirror,  shriek’d  to  spy 
In  that  wild  glass  her  own  deformity, 

And  fled  apace.  Anon  amid  the  brakes, 

Like  some  pursued  fawn  a  lair  she  makes, 

And  shrouding  with  her  furry  gown  those  eyes 
Which  not  the  curse  of  Merlin  could  disguise, 


126 


HEBER’S  TOETICAL  WORKS. 


As  at  herself  she  trembled,  till  her  grief 
Found  in  a  flood  of  gracious  tears  relief. 

Titania.  Poor  wretch  !  ye  soothed  her,  then  ? 

First  Fairy.  Her  tears  we  dried, 

And  pluck’d  the  brambles  from  her  bleeding  side; 

O’er  her  hot  brain  a  grateful  vapour  threw, 

And  sprinkled  every  limb  with  drowsy  dew; 

Then  bore  her  slumb’ring  to  this  green  retreat, 

And  with  star-jelly  cool’d  her  blister’d  feet, 

And  scatter’d  every  flower  of  purple  dye, 

And  fann’d  her  rest  with  owlet’s  plumery. 

Titania.  Well  have  ye  done  !  Sleep  on,  poor  Gwendolen, 
The  hour  of  retribution  is  arrived, 

And  Merlin  hath  no  longer  power  to  harm. — 

First  Fairy.  Is  Merlin  dead  ? 

Titania.  Ev’n  now  I  heard  the  yell 

Of  ghastly  merriment;  in  upper  air 
The  fiends  keep  holiday.  I  knew  their  song, 

A  song  of  triumph :  “  Merlin  is  no  more  ! 

Merlin,  the  mighty  one  !  Haste,  haste  to  meet  him, 

Ye  rulers  of  the  damn’d,  and  open  wide 
Your  everlasting  gates,  to  entertain 
The  master  of  the  spell !  Such  charms  no  more 
Shall  tax  our  labours  till  the  final  doom  !” 

First  Fairy.  How  died  he  ?  Say — 

Titania.  By  female  wiles  he  fell. 

She  of  the  Lake,  his  elfin  paramour, 

Jealous  of  his  late  wanderings, — in  a  tomb, 

(First  having  won  by  sugar’d  blandishment 
From  his  dark  soul  the  unutterable  name 


MISCELLANEOUS 


127 


Which  all  things  fear  in  hell,  in  earth  and  heaven,) 
Enclosed  the  struggling  wizard.  Nine  long  nights 
Within  the  rock  the  fairies  heard  him  moan, 

The  tenth  was  silence  ! 

First  Fairy.  May  the  merciless 

Such  fate  meet  ever !  But,  our  Gwendolen, 

Is  she  now  free  ? 

Titania.  The  Fates  their  course  must  have. 

And  Merlin’s  spells  have  power  beyond  the  grave. 

But  Heaven,  and  those  bright  stars  whose  golden  eyes 
Behold  the  link  of  mortal  destinies, 

An  equal  lot  of  weal  and  woe  prepare 
To  Harlech’s  virgin  and  to  Albion’s  heir. 

For  this  I  came  to  shed  a  soft  control 
Of  Heavenly  wisdom  o’er  her  sleeping  soul ; 

And  bring  to  mind  whate’er  of  secret  lore 
She  from  her  wizard  lover  learnt  before. 

But  soft,  she  stirs, — our  potent  pharmacy 
Has  roused  her  dream,  and  oped  her  sealed  eye. 

Vanish,  kind  fays — our  forms  she  must  not  spy ! 

[Gwendolen  awakes 

Gwendolen.  Oh  sacred  hour  of  retribution, 
Foredoom’d  to  dry  the  wretch’s  tear, 

And  rectify  this  dark  confusion, 

Of  .earthly  sin  and  shame  and  fear ; 

And  art  thou  then  a  fond  delusion 
Around  our  slumber  hovering  near, 

Of  Heavenly  bliss  a  blest  infusion 
Too  holy  to  be  tasted  here  ? 

Oh,  in  my  dreams  I  feel  them,  see  them  ! 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  days  of  bliss  return  again, 

As  victor  angels  tread  beneath  them, 

The  snare  of  fiends,  the  rage  of  men ! 

And  evermore  a  sweet  delusion 
Above  my  slumber  hovers  near ; 

And  tells  of  holy  retribution, 

And  chides  my  doubt  and  soothes  my  fear : 

I  wake — and  all  is  dark  and  drear. 

The  oak  wood  rustles  overhead ; 

The  aspen  sheds  its  foliage  sere 
Upon  my  wild  and  dewy  bed; 

Before  the  melancholy  blast 
Autumnal  clouds  are  driving  fast ; 

For  canopy  of  state  I  see 

The  white  moon  glimmering  through  the  tree 

I  tremble  as  with  woman  fear 

The  wolf’s  approaching  howl  I  hear; 

In  sickening  doubt  I  turn  mine  eyes 
From  mine  own  self  thus  hideous  grown ; 
And,  ranging,  in  this  goblin  guise, 

The  thorny  brake,  unseen,  unknown, 

I  curse  my  sleep,  whose  magic  power 
Hath  mock’d  with  bliss  my  hopeless  heart, 
And  trebly  curse  my  waking  hour, 

Which  bade  that  fancied  bliss  depart ; 

And  doubt,  so  quick  the  changes  seem, 

If  this  or  that  were  all  a  dream. 

Alas  !  how  know  we  which  is  true, 

The  night  or  day,  the  sun  or  shade, 

The  forms  which  glide  in  long  review, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


12& 


Before  our  eyes  in  slumber  laid, 

Or  those  our  waking  scenes  renew  ? 

Was  it  a  dream  that  Harlech’s  hall 
Received  my  wandering  steps  again, 

As  throbb’d  my  heart  at  rapture’s  call, 

More  rapt’rous  from  remember’d  pain ! 

On  my  cold  cheek  in  joyful  thrill, 

My  brother’s  tear,  I  feel  it  still ; 

And,  closer  to  my  heart  than  he, 

The  youth’s  warm  kiss  who  set  me  free ! 

Was  this  a  dream  ?  or,  dream  I  now, 

Of  mourning  weeds  and  desert  wild ; 

Of  whistling  wind  in  hawthorn  bough ; 

Of  form  by  magic  curse  defiled  ? 

Come,  pitying  death,  dissolve  the  strife, 

— And  wake  me  from  the  trance  of  life ! 

A  footstep  in  the  wood !  an  armed  man, 

And  hither  bound !  Retire  thee,  Gwendolen. 

Yet,  what  hast  thou  to  fear  ?  Thine  alter’d  form 
Is  safe  from  the  worst  danger,  and  thy  life, 

Not  worth  the  keeping,  mocks  his  cruelty. — 

Yet  must  I  hide  me — lend  me  your  shade,  kind  boughs, 
To  shade  this  hideous  face  from  earth  and  Heaven ! 


Scene,  the  Court. 

Arthur  on  his  throne ,  Llewellin  in  chains,  Guards,  &c.,  &c. 
Arthur.  How  wears  the  time  ? 

Kay.  The  sun  hath  well  nigh  scaled 

The  pinnacle  of  Heaven. 


180 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Arthur.  Oh  say  not  so  : — 

Is  it  indeed  so  late  ? — Where  art  thou,  Gawain, 

Too  slow  to  save  thy  friend  ?  Ah,  cursed  oath  ! 
Which  stops  the  mouth  of  mercy,  and  but  leaves 
A  barren  grief  to  after  penitence — 

That  I  might  now  recall  thee  !  Yet  again 
Be  it  proclaim’d, — if  that  mortal  tongue 
Can  solve  our  oracle — and  solving  save 
Yon  gallant  gentleman, — our  kingdom’s  power 
Is  tax’d  for  their  reward.  Still,  still, — all  still ! 

Oh,  good  Llewellin,  when  the  headsman’s  blow 
Redeems  mine  oath,  my  hoary  hairs  shall  follow 
(Believe  it)  to  the  grave.  Oh,  that  thy  wrath 
Had  cool’d  betimes,  or  mine.  Pardon,  oh  pardon ! 

As  I  forgive  thee  thine  unruly  brow 
Triumphant  o’er  mine  age,  thy  words  of  fire 
And  looks  of  mutiny,  such  as  no  king 
Can  brook  without  resistance, — pardon  thou 
The  rashness  of  mine  oath,  which  sends  thy  youth 
Untimely  to  the  tomb. 

Llewellin.  My  parting  prayer 

Waits  on  your  silver  locks ;  be  brief,  good  king; 
Dismiss  a  soul  which  on  its  tiptoe  stands 
Knocking  at  Heaven’s  high  gates.  I  have  met  death 
In  uglier  shapes  before,  nor  find  I  now, 

Save  in  this  tardiness,  his  teeth  or  sting. 

Have  with  you,  headsman. 

Arthur.  Stay,  I  charge  ye,  stay ! — 

A  noise — I  hear  it  well, — a  horse’s  tread 


I 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


131 


As  one  in  speed — and  hark  that  shout,  0  Heaven  ! 


Run  some  of  ye  and  learn. 


( Cry  without.) 
Long  live  Earl  Gawain  ! 


Arthur.  Welcome,  brave  nephew, 

Now  more  than  ever  welcome ;  have  ye  sped  ? 
Is  mine  oath  cancell’d? — is  the  prisoner  free? 
Hath  Merlin  told  his  secret  ? 


G-awain. 


He  hath  borne 


That  secret  to  the  land  of  secrecy, 

Nor  can  Llewellin  claim  a  further  sentence 
Than  Heaven  hath  pass’d  on  Merlin.  0  !  my  liege, 
Strange  things  have  chanced,  which  at  fitting  season 
I  shall  unfold.  Now  to  my  chiefest  care. 

Unlock  these  rivets,  jailor,  for  thy  charge 
By  Arthur’s  oath  is  free ; — Arthur  hath  sought 
What  women  mostly  crave ; — my  answer  follow? 
Power  is  their  passion.  From  the  lordly  dame 
To  the  brown  maid  that  tends  the  harvest-field, 

They  prize  it  most.  Wherefore  is  pleasure  scoi 
But  to  increase  their  sway  ? — why  riches  lavish 
But  as  an  argument  of  queenly  state  ? 

Wherefore  is  virtue  scorn’d  ?  why  vice  thought 
But  for  the  pride  of  taming  him  whose  wiles 
Have  ruin’d  many, — why  is  beauty  marr’d 
By  ceruse  or  by  corset  ? — wherefore  love 
Led  like  a  blithe  and  perfumed  sacrifice 
To  Phoebus’  altar,  but  in  hope  to  reign? — 

Ye  have  mine  answer. — 

Arthur ,  Loose  Llewellin’s  chain  ! 


132 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Gawain,  thou  hast  thine  earldom.  Valiant  friends, 
This  day  he  peace  to  all.  Let  me  embrace  you 
With  penitent  fondness.  Ah  !  what  ghastly  spectre 
Troubles  our  happiness  ? — Can  this  be  human  ! 

She  kneels,  she  holds  a  ring — 

Gwendolen.  A  boon,  a  boon 

From  Arthur  and  from  Gawain !  What  I  am, 

What  I  have  done,  he  knows. — What  he  hath  sworn 
This  ring  be  witness. 

Gawain.  I  acknowledge  all, 

And  nobody  will  repay  thee.  Come,  to-morrow, — 
To-day, — this  even, — only  scare  not  now 

This  royal  presence. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Gwendolen.  I  saved  thy  friend, 

I  brought  thine  earldom  back ;  my  wisdom  sounded 
The  craft  of  Merlin ;  and  the  grateful  Gawain 
(For  he  was  grateful  then)  sware  by  his  sword, 

This  ring  his  sponsor, — to  reward  my  pains 
With  whatsoe’er  I  ask’d.  I  ask  it  now, 

Before  the  king — my  hire,  my  righteous  hire, 

Such  as  a  knight  must  pay. 

Gawain.  Ask  and  receive  ! 

I  own  my  oath, — and  though  my  colder  blood 
Thrills  to  its  fountain  at  thy  gaze,  and  nature 
Forebodes  of  something  monstrous  in  thy  soul, 
Which  I  may  shrink  to  answer — I  have  sworn ; 

And  bid  me  tame  the  brindled  pard,  or  keep 
Mine  unarm’d  vigil  in  a  dragon’s  den, — 

Be  the  king  witness,  and  this  table  round, 

I  will  perform  thy  bidding ;  speak  and  obtain. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


m 

Gwendolen .  Give  me  thyself,— be  thou  mine  husband, 
Gawain ! 

What !  scared  already,— hast  thou  sworn  in  vain  ? 

Am  I  so  monstrous  ? — Oh,  I  feel  I  am  ! 

Yet  have  I  saved  thy  friend. 

***** 

***** 

Gawain.  So  we  are  married.  Rule  thou  in  my  house, 
Govern  my  treasure, — prank  thee  in  my  jewels  ; 

All,  all  is  thine !— for  me,  I  mount  my  steed 
And  ramble  forth  to-night,  an  errant  warrior, 

To  see  thy  face  no  more. — 

Gwendolen.  Alas  for  me  . 

Is  this  a  marriage? — thus  did  Gawain  swear. 

To  mock  me  with  himself, — to  leave  me  thus, 

His  lawful  partner,  to  the  scoffs  of  men, 

And  the  constructions  of  a  peevish  world, 

Weak  and  defenceless,  childless,  husbandless? 

Oh,  my  good  lord, — shall  it  be  said  this  face 
Has  robb’d  my  country  of  its  bravest  knight  ? 

And  shall  the  Saxon,  and  the  ruthless  Dane, 

Triumphant  in  your  absence,  thank  the  foulness 
Of  Gawain’s  countess  for  their  victory ! 

Far  be  such  curse  from  me  !  If  I  am  loathed, 

Beyond  endurance  loathed, — command  me  hence, 

And  I  forsake  your  roof ; — I  know  my  duty ; 

And  your  poor  wife,  from  forth  her  wilderness, 

Shall  bless  and  pray  for  Gawain. 

Gawain.  Nay,  not  so  ; 

For  I  have  sworn  to  shield  thee ;  rest  thee  here, 

V2 


134 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


■ 


And  ev’n  in  absence  shall  mine  eye  behold 
Thy  comforts  and  thy  safety  ;  weep  not,  dame, 

I  am  thy  guardian,  and  will  well  discharge 
A  guardian’s  office.  Friendship  may  be  ours, 

Thy  form  forbids  not  that.  What — weeping  still ! 

I  will  not  leave  thee ; — with  a  brother’s  zeal 
For  thy  past  service  done  I  will  watch  over  thee. 

Be  of  good  courage, — come,  one  kiss  of  peace 

To  seal  our  bargain. - Hateful  !  horrible  ! 

And  dost  thou  cling  around  me,  cursed  fiend, 

To  drag  me  to  perdition  !  Out,  aroint ! 

For  in  God’s  name  I  charge  thee  set  me  free, 

And  by  this  holy  sign ! 

Gwendolen.  Oh,  bless’d  be  thou ! — 

Turn,  Gawain,  turn  1 

( Loud  thunder.) 


*  *  * 

*  *  * 


*  *  * 

♦  *  * 


i 


’•'-it  '  » 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


185 


BLUE-BEARD. 


A  SERIO-COMIC  ORIENTAL  ROMANCE. 


A  Court-yard  before  Fadlallah  s  House. 

Fadlallah.  Good  neighbour,  be  quiet !— my  word  is  a  law— 
I  have  said  that  my  daughter  shall  wed  the  Bashaw  ! 
Selim.  But,  neighbour,  your  promise ! 

Fadlallah.  My  promise  !  go  to  ! 

With  him  must  I  break  it  to  keep  it  with  you  ? 

Selim.  You  promised  me  first ! 

Fadlallah.  But  I  promised  him  since  ! 

And  what  saith  the  Koran  ?  “  Speak  truth  to  thy  prince  ! 
Selim.  You  swore  by  the  Prophet ! 

Fadlallah.  I  tell  thee,  forbear  ! 

In  abundance  of  words  is  abundance  of  care  !  • 

And  again  saith  the  Koran,  in  Surah  the  third, 

“  Confine  not  thy  neighbour  too  close  to  his  word  !” 

Selim.  Would  you  yield  to  this  monster  your  Fatima’s 
life  ?  ~ 

Why  he  eats  every  night  for  his  supper  a  wife  ! 

Fadlallah.  Mere  libellous  nonsense  !  I  tell  thee,  Selim, 
I  know  nothing  less  like  a  monster  than  him  ! 

Ayesha.  Oh,  father  !  but  think  on  his  whiskers  of  blue ! 
Fadlallah.  I  tell  you,  the  man  is  as  rich  as  a  Jew ! 

[  wish  I  could  find  such  a  husband  for  you ! 

Selim.  Allow  me,  at  least,  to  take  leave  of  the  maid  ! 


186 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS 


Fadlallah .  You  may  do  as  you  please — I  shall  not  be 
afraid. 

No  daughter  of  mine  has  a  spirit  so  mean, 

To  prefer  her  kab-kabs  to  a  gilt  palankeen  ; 

To  trudge  to  the  baths  with  no  soul  in  her  train, 

And  wrapp’d  in  a  shawl  from  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

When  she  might,  if  she  pleased,  on  an  elephant  ride, 

With  trumpets  before  her  and  troops  by  her  side, 

And  sweep  through  the  streets  like  a  lady  of  honour, 
Dwarfs,  negroes,  and  eunuchs  attendant  upon  her. 

Selim ! — I  once  loved  you.  Be  but  a  good  boy, 

I’ll  speak  to  the  Bashaw  to  give  you  employ. 

But  my  daughter’s  affianced  ! 

Exeunt  Fadlallah  and  Ayesha. 

Selim.  Says  Fatima  so  ? 

Fatima.  I  am  but  the  slave  of  my  father,  you  know. 

I  must  do  as  he  wills,  or  with  you,  my  Selim, 

A  cottage  were  more  than  a  palace  with  him  ! 

But,  alas,  ’tis  in  vain !  and,  since  love  is  denied, 

I  must  fold  my  pale  form  in  the  mantle  of  pnde, 

Must  loll  on  my  couch  with  an  indolent  mien, 

Of  a  heart-chilling  harem  the  heart-broken  queen, 

And  trifle  the  time  while  my  tyrant  reposes, 

With  diamonds,  and  arrack,  and  attar  of  roses ! 

Selim.  I  cannot  endure  it !  The  Bashaw  I’ll  meet, 
I’ll  fling  myself  down  in  the  dust  at  his  feet. 

I’ll  tell  him  our  story. 

Fatima.  His  heart  is  of  steel ! 

Selim.  By  Allah  !  my  dagger  shall  force  him  to  feel ! 
I’ll  drag  from  his  horse  the  oppressor,  and  then— 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


137 


Fatima.  A  peasant !  and  fight  with  a  leader  of  men  ! 
You  can  but  fall  a  victim  to  numbers,  and  I ! — 

I  never  will  live  to  look  on,  when  you  die ! 

Farewell, — be  resign’d — take  this  ring  for  a  token  ; 

So  long  as  its  stone  is  unblench’d  and  unbroken, 

You  may  know  that  I  live — that  I’m  well — that  I  bear 
In  peace  and  in  patience  the  load  of  despair. — 

But  if  once  its  smooth  surface  begins  to  decay, 

And  the  tint  of  the  ruby  to  vanish  away, 

You  may  learn  that  my  life  is  in  danger,  and — pray  ! 

Selim.  Yet,  yet  there  is  hope  1  I  have  told  you  before, 
My  mother’s  an  Arab,  and  born  in  Mount  Hor: 

Her  kindred  disown’d  her  for  wedding  a  clown  ; 

But  my  uncle  the  Shekh,  as  he  pass’d  by  our  town, 
Half-famish’d,  half-naked,  hard  press’d  by  the  foe, 

Was  pleased  for  a  moment  his  pride  to  forego, 

To  be  fed,  clothed,  and  shelter’d,  as  best  we  were  able; 

To  be  warm’d  by  our  hearth,  to  be  hid  in  our  stable  ; 

And  to  say,  on  the  morrow,  as  grimly  he  smiled, 

He  would  u  make  me  a  man  if  I  came  to  the  wild  ! 

In  less  than  three  days  I  can  reach  his  retreat ; 

I’ll  tell  him  my  sorrows,  fall  down  at  his  feet. 

He  hates  Abou  Malek  ! 

Fatima.  But  what  can  he  do, 

Our  tyrant  so  mighty,  his  people  so  few  ? 

He  may  rifle  a  pilgrim,  set  fire  to  a  village, 

Or  threaten  the  Monks  of  Mount  Sinai  with  pillage  ; — 
But  to  cope  with  a  Bashaw ! 

Selim.  No  matter,  I’ll  try  ! 

[Martial  music  at  a  distanoe . 


12* 


138 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Fatima .  Good  Heaven — they  are  here  !  if  you  value 
me,  fly ! 

Enter  Fadlallah. 

Fadlallah.  In,  into  the  house,  silly  girl ! — By  my  beard, 
This  moment  the  sound  of  a  trumpet  I  heard : 

Would  you  stand  in  the  court  with  no  veil  on  your  face, 
When  his  highness,  your  husband,  rides  into  the  place  ? 

In,  in — get  the  clothes  on  he  sent  you  this  morning ! 

And,  neighbour,  kind  neighbour,  I  give  you  fair  warning, 
If  longer  in  sight  of  my  door  I  survey  you, 

I’ll  speak  to  my  son-in-law’s  worship  to  flay  you ! 

\Exeunt  severally  Fatima  and  Selim. 
Abou  Maleic  [speaking  without).  Sound,  trumpets,  a 
halt !  My  Albanians  may  wait, 

Drawn  up  in  two  lines,  from  the  bridge  to  the  gate ! 

Let  none  dare  to  enter !  \_Entering. 

Well,  father-in-law. 

Fadlallah.  I  hope  that  your  highness  will  pardon  the 
awe —  [ Hesitating . 

Unprepared  as  I  am,  unaccustom’d  to  view 
The  shadow  of  one  so  illustrious  as  you ! 

Oh,  Lud  !  I’m  afraid  of  those  whiskers  of  blue  !  [Aside. 
I  could  speak  very  well  if  I  once  made  a  start, 

But  ’tis  gone  from  me  clean  what  I’d  gotten  by  heart. 
Where  was  I  ? — Oh  now —  [Aloud. 

Will  your  highness  be  pleased — 
Abou  Malek.  Slave,  infidel,  hound !  am  I  thus  to  be 
teased 

With  your  bowing  and  cringing,  and  kneeling,  and  talking, 
Detaining  me  here  from  night  until  dawning  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


139 

Go,  call  out  your  daughter,  ’tis  her  that  I  seek, — 

But  you,  if  I  let  you,  would  chatter  this  week ! 

Fadlallah  {aside).  His  highness  is  hasty. — I  dare  not 
complain, 

But  ’tis  hard  that  my  speech  should  be  studied  in  vain. 

Abou  Maleh.  What  have  I  forgot  ? — I  return  to  the  gate 
To  give  out  some  orders. — Your  daughter  may  wait.  [. Exit . 
Fadlallah.  He’s  a  Bashaw  indeed ! — How  I  envy  his 
state ! 

How  noble  his  action  ! — “  Your  daughter  may  wait !” 

Enter  Patima  and  Ayesha. 

Come,  Fatima,  girl,  and  give  thanks  on  your  knee 
For  a  husband  so  kind,  condescending,  and  free! 

“  Good  father-in-law,”  said  his  highness  to  me, 

“You  speak  like  an  angel,  good  father-in-law;” 

He’s  the  civilest  gentleman  ever  I  saw ; 

And  by  the  same  token  will  make  me  a  Cadi, 

So  soon  as  my  daughter  comes  out  as  his  lady ! — 

What — weeping,  you  fool  ?  By  the  Caaba,  I’d  tear, 

If  it  were  not  for  rumpling  that  head-dress,  your  hair ! 

I’d  make  you  come  out  by  the  head  and  the  shoulder ! 

You  are  only  too  lucky ! 

Ayesha.  And  that’s  what  I  told  her ! 

I’m  sure  she  has  plenty  to  make  her  content. 

Do  look  at  the  things  which  the  Bashaw  has  sent ! 

Such  silks  and  such  kincobs,  such  collars  of  pearl ! 

She  looks  like  a  Peri  far  more  than  a  girl. 

And  I,  her  poor  bride-maid,  by  all  am  confess’d 
As  sweetly,  though  not  so  expensively  dress’d. 


i 


140 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Come,  keep  up  your  spirits !  do,  Fatima,  do ! 

I  don’t  think  his  whiskers  so  frightfully  blue  ! 

Re-enter  Abou  Malek.  All  kneel. 

All  hail  Lord  of  Damascus  ! 

Abou  Malek.  Young  woman,  I  come 

According  to  promise,  to  carry  you  home. 

Your  sister  goes  with  you.  Of  course  you  are  ready. — 
Black  eunuchs  without !  form  a  guard  for  your  lady  ! 
Come,  kiss  me  !  I  like  you ! 

Fatima.  In  mercy  forbear  ! 

Despise  me,  and  fix  your  affections  elsewhere ! 

Fadlallah.  Perhaps,  if  your  highness  my  girls  would 
compare, 

This  other’s  as  handsome. 

Abou  Malek.  But  less  to  my  taste.— 

Come,  Fatima,  rise  from  the  ground — I’m  in  haste ! 

The  affairs  of  the  East  on  my  leisure  attend. — 

Fadlallah  !  farewell !  kiss  with  reverence  the  end 
Of  this  worshipful  finger,  which,  were  the  whim  in  it. 
Might  beckon  your  head  from  your  shoulders  this  minute. 
Fatima.  0  Bashaw  !  if  pity  e’er  enter’d  your  breast  1 
Abou  Malek.  You  have  reason,  I  trow,  to  be  sadly 
distress'd ! 

The  spouse  of  a  Bashaw,  mere  maidenish  stuff! 

I  like  you — have  bought  you — will  keep  you, — enough  ! 

\Exeuni 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


141 


Scene  II. — A  large  Hall  or  Staircase  with  many  doors. 

Music  and  dancing  heard  without. 

Enter  Abou  Malek,  Fatima,  Ayesha. 

Abou  Malek.  I  hate  all  this  nonsense  ! — these  gardens  of 
myrtle. 

These  long  wedding  suppers,  how  vastly  absurd ! 

These  verses  comparing  my  spouse  to  a  turtle ! 

I’m  w’ed  to  a  woman,  and  not  to  a  bird  ! 

I  can  gaze  with  delight  on  her  person  and  graces, 

And  hope  that  the  sequel  fresh  charms  will  disclose ; 

But  it  bores  me  to  hear  such  bombastical  praises, — 

No  nightingale  I  to  be  gull’d  with  a  rose ! 

Go — order  the  minstrels  to  silence  their  tabors  ! 

Bid  the  dancing  girls  pack  up  their  rags  and  be  gone ! 
Ayesha.  Lord,  sir !  you’ll  offend  all  your  kindred  and 
neighbours ; 

The  nach-girls  and  singers  have  scarcely  begun ! 

I  never  can  find  an  excuse  that  is  clever — 

They’ll  needs  see  your  highness  before  they  retire. 

Abou  Malek.  Go  tell  ’em  I’m  sick — have  the  plague — 
have  a  fever ! 

Say  the  sherbet  is  out ! — say  the  Harem’s  on  fire ! 

[Exit  Ayesha  lingeringly. 
I  breathe  at  my  ease  now  Ayesha  is  gone ! 

0  born  in  a  cottage,  but  fit  for  a  throne  ! 

You  perchance  think  my  manners  are  rough  and  austere; 
But  why  do  you  tremble  ? — my  Houri,  draw  near  1 
I  have  secrets  of  moment  to  pour  in  your  ear  1 


142 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Twelve  years  have  I  languish’d  a  partner  to  meet, 

Kind,  beautiful,  humble,  domestic,  discreet; 

Twelve  times  have  I  hoped  that  my  labour  was  sped ; 
Twelve  times  have  I  fail’d — for  the  rest,  ask  the  dead ! 
Twelve  damsels  in  turn — but,  alas !  you  have  heard 
The  crime  which  has  pall’d  down  this  curse  on  my  beard ! 
You  have  heard  it  ? 

Fatima .  Your  highness,  I  have — but  I  know 

That  slander  still  follows  the  mighty. 

Abou  Maleic.  ’Tis  true ! 

Now  learn  the  sad  cause  ! — in  my  cradle  when  laid, 

My  mother  gave  alms  to  a  soothsaying  maid, 

A  poor  crazy  wanderer,  in  ruins  that  slept, 

And  her  vigils  with  Gouls  in  the  monument  kept, 

Till  her  soul,  from  the  haunts  of  humanity  driven, 

Grew  skill’d  in  the  visions  of  Hell  and  of  Heaven, 

And  her  words  of  wild  raving  had  power  to  unfold 
Whatever  the  eyes  of  the  Prophet  behold  : — 

She  stopt  at  our  cottage,  sate  down  by  our  door 
(I  care  not  who  knows  it — my  parents  were  poor, 

I  rose  by  the  sabre’s  adventurous  law, 

First  robber,  then  rebel,  and  last  a  Bashaw ;) 

But  she,  when  relieved  by  our  water  and  bread, 

Took  the  babe  in  her  arms,  prest  her  lips  to  his  head, 
And — You  mark  me  ? 

Fatima.  Intently ! 

Abou  Maleic.  She  shudder’d  and,  “  Thou 

Strange  matters  are  written,”  she  cried,  “  on  thy  brow ! 
High  valour,  high  fortune,  untimely  o’erthrow  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


143 


Yet,  warrior,  no  bowstring  shall  bring  thee  thy  doom, — 

No  writ  of  the  Sultan  conduct  to  the  tomb ; 

Live,  live,  Abou  Malek  !  fear’d,  honour’d,  carest, 

Of  the  chiefs  of  the  Koran  the  boldest  and  best ; 

Fear  no  sabres  that  glisten,  no  bullets  that  fly, 

Till  a  bride’s  curiosity  doom  thee  to  die!” 

Fatima.  Strange  doom ! 

Abou  Malek.  Dost  thou  wonder  that  twelve  I  have  tried  ? 
Dost  thou  wonder  that  they  who  deceived  me  have  died  ? 
Let  their  fate  be  thy  warning  !  Last  hope  of  my  life, 

Be  firm!  and  I  make  thee  my  queen  and  my  wife ! 

Thou  shalt  rule  o’er  our  heart,  shalt  rule  o’er  Damascus, 
Whatever  thou  seek’st  thou  hast  only  to  ask  us ! 

But  first,  to  thy  trial !  take  charge  of  my  keys : 

Wherever  thou  wilt,  they  admit  thee  with  ease. 

Range  at  will  through  my  castle, — its  wealth  is  thine  own  ! 
But  yon  south  turret  chamber  must  yet  be  unknown ! 

Do  this  and  be  blest !  for  three  days  we  must  part : 

Be  firm, — or  my  dagger  must  smoke  in  thy  heart ! 
Farewell  for  three  days  ! 

Fatima.  Oh,  my  Lord,  I  entreat, 

Show  grace  to  my  weakness  !  I  sink  at  your  feet; 

I  will  honour  you,  love  you,  obey  you,  adore  ! 

All,  all  but  this  trial ! 

Abou  Malek.  It  must  be  !  no  more  !  [Exit, 

Enter  Ayesha. 

AyesJia.  Thank  Heaven  he  is  off!  I  have  heard  your 
dispute — 

lie  a  Bashaw,  indeed  ! — A  fantastic  old  brute. 


144 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Fatima.  You  heard  it? 

Ayesha.  I  listen’d,  my  love,  at  the  door — 

I  never  have  met  such  a  monster  before. 

Kill  a  woman  for  peeping  !  why  here’s  a  to-do ! 

I  wonder  what’s  in  that  same  chamber — Don’t  you? 
Fatima.  Oh,  talk  not  of  prying ! 

Ayesha.  The  Prophet  forbid  ! 

But — he  never  could  know  it,  my  dear,  if  we  did. 

And  now  that  I  look,  what  a  beautiful  key  ! 

Do,  Fatima,  trust  it  a  moment  with  me.  [ Snatching  the  key. 
Fatima.  What,  what  are  you  doing  ? 

[Ayesha  tries  the  hey  in  the  lock  of  the  door. 
Ayesha.  I  want  to  be  sure 

If  this  is  the  key  which  belongs  to  the  door — 

It  fits,  I  declare,  like  a  finger  and  glove ! 

Fatima.  In  mercy,  return  it ! 

Ayesha.  Return  it,  my  love ! 

I  have  not  yet  turn'd  it, — nor  do  I  intend. 

No,  child,  on  my  prudence  you  well  may  depend  ! 

I  would  not  for  the  world — Oh,  my  stars !  it  is  done ! 

\The  door  flies  open  with  a  tremendous  sound ,  several 
Skeletons  seen  within. 

The  chamber  is  open,  as  sure  as  a  gun  ; 

And  oh  !  what  an  object !  See,  Fatima,  see  ! 

Oh,  shut-to  the  door !  turn  the  key,  turn  the  key  ! 

Run  !  run  for  your  life — Oh  ! 

[Fatima  closes  the  door. 
Wretched  girl !  we’re  undone  ! 


Fatima. 

The  key  is  all  bloody  ! 
Ayesha . 


Run,  Fatima,  run  !  [Exeunt, 


mmamnmmmmmmm 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


145 


Scene  III.  A  wild  rocky  Desert  without  trees  or  vegeta¬ 
tion .  At  a  small  distance  a  cluster  of  low  black  Tents. 


Enter  Selim  with  a  staff,  scrip ,  and  bottle  for  holding  water . 

Selim.  To  think  that  my  uncle  takes  pleasure  to  dwell 
In  a  country  whose  heat  the  best  spirit  would  quell ! 

Tis  true  he’s  a  thief,  and  of  thieves  the  commander, 

But  his  quarters  would  puzzle  the  best  salamander. 

A  plague  on  these  flints  that  have  worn  out  my  feet ! 

A  plague  on  these  rocks  half  calcined  by  the  heat ! 

How  dreadful  these  waterless  vapours  that  make, 

To  torture  the  pilgrim,  the  farce  of  a  lake ! 

Not  a  tree,  not  a  spring  has  this  wilderness  in  it. 

My  pulse  beats  two  hundred  and  ten  in  a  minute, 

My  tongue  is  on  fire,  and  my  brain  in  a  muddle  ; 

I  would  give  all  the  world  for  a  good  draught  of  puddle ! 
Then,  when  one  least  thinks  of  it,  comes  the  Simoom, 

And  these  sands  will  supply  me  a  couch  and  a  tomb  ! 

Or,  who  can  be  sure  but  some  merciful  Shekh, 

For  the  sake  of  my  garments,  may  twist  off  my  neck? 

Oh  dear!  I’m  afraid  ! — I’ve  a  mind  to  turn  back, 

But  I  doubt  that  I  never  shall  hit  on  the  track — 

And  Fatima !  Thou  ! — can  I  leave  thee  in  thrall  ? 

Cheer  up ! — a  high  spirit  may  scramble  through  all. 

And — hurrah — I  have  found  them!  dark  perch’d  on  the 
sand 

Like  a  cluster  of  ravens,  the  tents  are  at  hand. 

And,  sure,  that’s  my  uncle - 


146 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Stand,  infidel,  stand ! 


Enter  Shekh. 

Shekh. 

Stand,  slave,  and  deliver ! 

Selim.  ’Tis  vastly  distressing, 

That  he  won’t  recollect  me  !  Kind  uncle,  your  blessing ! 
Shekh.  Ha,  rascal !  who  art  thou  ?  # 

Selim.  Oh— look  not  so  grim  ! 

The  son  of  your  sister,  your  nephew  Selim  ! 

Destroy  not  the  seed  of  your  father  with  fear ! 

Shekh.  Selim,  by  the  prophet !— and  what  brings  thee 

here  ? 

Hast  thou  taken  my  counsel,  and  is  it  thy  bent 
To  sojourn  with  us  in  the  shade  of  the  tent? 

To  cast  in  thy  lot  with  thy  friends,  and  to  rear, 

Dimly  seen  through  the  twilight,  the  long  Arab  spear  . 

To  mark  from  some  mountain  where,  patient  and  slow, 
The  rich-laden  caravan  circles  below  ? 

Then  spring  to  thy  courser,  exulting  and  gay, 

And  swift  as  an  eagle  dart  down  on  the  prey ! 

Oh,  blithe  are  my  pastimes  on  desert  and  down, 

Far,  far  from  the  smoke  and  the  noise  of  the  town  5 
And  calm  my  repose  when  the  carpet  is  spread, 

’Twixt  the  steed  of  my  bosom,  and  the  wife  of  my  bed, 
When  camel-bells  tinkle,  and  embers  burn  bright, 

And  the  tent-curtain  flaps  in  the  breezes  of  night ! 
Though  poor  my  apparel,  though  scanty  my  fare, 

A  cake  on  the  hearth,  and  a  mantle  of  hair, 

How  sweet  is  that  morsel,  how  light  is  that  vest, 

And  how  rich  do  X  feel  of  this  sabre  possest  1 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


147 


Selim .  This  is  charming,  I  own  ;  in  this  tranquil  retreat 
You’ve  the  blessings  of  hunger,  of  thirst  and  of,  heat, — • 
May  you  long  time  enjoy  them ;  for  me,  when  I’m  bent 
To  taste  of  these  pleasures,  I’ll  visit  your  tent. 

But  now  for  protection,  dear  uncle,  I  sue — 

You  know  the  Bashaw  of  Damascus? 

Shekh.  I  do. - 

Selim.  The  monster  has  borne  off  my  beautiful  bride. 
Shekh.  He’s  perfectly  right  for  himself  to  provide. 
Selim.  Is  my  uncle  in  earnest  ? 

Shekh.  #  I  am,  my  Selim : 

And,  thou  wilt  do  right  to  assassinate  him  ! 

Selim.  By  my  beard !  I  intend  it — but  how  shall  I  do  it  ? 
Shekh.  Oh  just  as  thou  wilt,  so  thou  fairly  goest  through 
it. — 

Thou  may’st  shoot  him,  or  stab  him,  or  beat  out  his  brain. 
Selim.  But  how  to  get  at  him  ? — your  meaning  explain. 
Shekh.  I  have  spoken ! — and  he  who  hath  purpose  to 
slay, 

If  he  have  but  the  courage,  will  find  out  the  way ! 

If  thou  diest,  I’ll  avenge  thee. 

Selim.  Far  rather  defend  me  ! 

I  hoped  that  the  spears  of  Mount  Hor  would  befriend  me! 
You  have  eaten  our  salt,  have  been  warm  d  at  our  fire, 
And  there  flows  in  my  veins  of  the  blood  of  your  sire. 

To  a  castle  in  Hauran,  if  truth  is  in  fame, 

Abou  Malek  has  borne  my  disconsolate  dame. 

The  walls  are  not  strong,  and  the  garrison  few. 

What  say  you  to  singeing  those  whiskers  of  blue  ? 

W  ill  you  aid  my  revenge  ? 


148 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Shekh.  I  don,t  care  if  1  do. 

First  come  to  the  tent,  share  my  bread  and  my  water 
And  the  moon  of  to-morrow  shall  light  us  to  slaughter 
Selim.  Oh,  pause  not  a  moment ! 

Shekh.  And  why,  my  Selim  ? 

Selim.  The  ring  on  my  finger  !  its  ruby  grows  dim  ! 
She  dies, — she  is  bleeding, — I  see  by  the  stone  1 
Oh,  haste,  or  I  fly  to  her  rescue  alone ! 

Shekh.  By  my  head — a  brave  youth !  I  will  lend  thee 

a  steed, 

And  I  and  my  people  will  help  at  thy  need. 

And  woe  to  these  Turks  when  the  whirlwind  of  war 
Is  gather’d  in  clouds  on  the  summit  of  Hor ! 

When  the  locusts  of  Maon  are  dark  on  the  blast, 

And  the  leopards  of  Arnon— 

Selim.  Oh,  haste !  uncle,  haste  ! 

[ Exeunt . 


Scene  IV. — An  Apartment  in  Blue-Beard’s  Castle . 

Fatima,  Ayesha. 

Fatima.  In  vain  you  console  me, — too  sure  is  my  doom 
And  the  dews  of  to-morrow  must  weep  o’er  my  tomb. 
Enough  1  I  forgive  you ;  ’twas  Azrael’s  decree, 

That  bloody  my  death  and  untimely  should  be. 

Poor  captives  of  fate !  the  entangled  gazelle 
May  break  through  the  snare  of  the  hunter  .as  well, 

As  we,  with  our  wisdom,  our  cunning  and  wit, 

Escape  from  the  meshes  by  destiny  knit ! 

Be  at  rest,  I  forgive  you  l 


MISCELLANEOUS.  149 

I 

Ayesha.  Yet,  yet  we  have  space 

To  contrive  our  escape  from  this  horrible  place. 

Two  days  have  gleam’d  sadly  o’er  dungeon  and  tower, 

Since  the  Lord  of  Damascus  set  forth  with  his  power. 

One  more  must  be  wash’d  from  the  tables  of  fate, 

Ere  the  shade  of  his  presence  will  darken  the  gate. 

And  Selim,  by  this  time,  must  his- uncle  have  met. 

And,  my  dear  injured  sister ! — I’d  lay  you  a  bet 
That,  or  ere  our  tyrant  returns  to  our  door, 

Ilis  way  will  be  block’d  by  the  bands  of  Mount  Hor. 

Fatima.  Can  Arabs  contend  with  a  warrior  like  him  ? 

Oh,  better  I  die  than  endanger  Selim  ! 

Ayesha.  Yet,  yet  I  have  something  to  check  your 
despair — 

I  have  search’d  through  the  south  turret  chamber,  and 
there — 

Fatima.  Oh  name  not  the  turret — that  desolate  room, 
Where  my  wretched  forerunners  in  folly  and  doom 
Lie  mouldering  and  green  I 

Ayesha.  I  beheld  with  affright, 

And  horrid,  most  horrid  indeed  was  the  sight ! 

But  I  still  persevered,  for  there  prest  on  my  mind 
A  suspicion  of  mystery  lurking  behind. 

And  at  length  I  have  found  it ;  an  aperture  small 
That  leads  to  a  stair  in  the  bulk  of  the  wall ; 

Beneath  it  a  postern  conceal’d,  and  I  hope 
That  with  me  you  will  pack  up  your  things  and  elope. 
Fatima.  No  packing  !  no  loitering  !  conduct  me  this 
minute  ! 

Ayesha.  Law  I  your  train  will  be  bloodied  !  allow  me 

to  pin  it : 

13'* 


r 


160 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


We  have  plenty  of  time.  [ Looking  through  the  door , 

Oh,  confusion  and  sorrow  ! 

The  Bashaw  has  mistaken  to-day  for  to-morrow : 

He  is  now  on  the  staircase.  Oh,  would  it  might  crumble — 
I’d  break  my  own  neck  to  insure  him  a  tumble  ! 

Abou  Malek  [speaking  without).  Within  there !  what, 
slaves  !  are  ye  sleeping  or  dead  ? 

If  ye  sleep  till  the  morning,  your  couch  will  be  red ! 

Am  I  forced  like  a  dog  of  the  desert  to  wait, — 

No  slaves  at  my  stirrup,  no  guard  at  my  gate, 

And  unhonour’d  by  sign  or  salute  from  the  wall— 

To  sneak  like  a  thief  to  my  own  castle  hall ! 

Up,  up  to  the  ramparts !  unlimber  the  swivels, 

You  will  soon  have  a  visit  from  Arabs  or  devils ! 

They  are  hard  on  my  track ! 

Ayesha.  Recollect  what  I  told  you ! 

Cheer  up  !  he  must  not  in  this  anguish  behold  you ; 

Put  him  off  for  a  while  if  he  talks  of  the  keys, 

By  the  help  of  a  kiss  you  may  do  it  with  ease. 

But  gain  a  few  hours,  and  I’ll  wager  my  neck, 

Some  tidings  will  come  of  Selim  and  his  Shekh. 

[To  Abou  Malek  as  he  enters. 

Oh,  my  lord !  my  dear  brother !  such  sudden  delight ! 

We  never  expected  you  home  by  to-night ! 

Abou  Malek.  So,  so,  where’s  your  sister  ! 

Ayesha.  And  as  I  was  saying, 

Your  highness,  we  thought,  in  the  city  was  staying ; 

So  we  fasten’d  the  gate,  sent  the  servants  to  sleep, 

Good  hours  we  were  always  accustom’d  to  keep, 

And  we  were  just  talking — 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


161 


Abou  Malek.  My  curse  on  your  head. 

No  doubt  you  were  talking — 

Ayesha.  Of  going  to  bed. 

Abou  Malek.  Fatima  !  well  may  you  boast  of  the  charms 
That  bring  back  your  husband  so  soon  to  your  arms. 

Three  days  I  had  promised— my  heart  could  not  wait, 

And  the  second  has  seen  me  return  to  your  gate. 

Escaped  from  an  ambush  that  threaten’d  my  life, 

I  come  with  delight  to  my  home  and  my  wife.  ^ 

My  wife  and  my  queen  !  Yes— your  trial  is  o’er, 

And  the  fiend  of  suspicion  shall  haunt  me  no  more  . 

But  what  ?  All  in  tears— in  confusion  ! 

Fatima.  Great  sir, 

Your  return  so  unlook’d  for,  so  sudden,— I  fear - 

Abou  Malek.  Fear  1  what !  . 

Ayesha.  That  some  sudden  disaster  or  sickness 

Is  the  cause,  mighty  Lord,  of  your  singular  quickness. 
Then,  you  seem  to  be  wearied,  and  I  have  a  notion, 

You  had  better  retire  with  a  nightcap  and  potion. . 

Then,  the  ambush  you  mention’d  has  thrill’d  us  with  fear. 
Who  could  be  your  foes  ? 

Abou  Malek.  From  Mount  Hor,  or  Mount  Seir, 

Some  rascally  Arabs — 

Ayesha.  My  love,  do  you  hear  ?  (Aside  to  Fatima.) 

(Aloud.)  « 

And  pray  does  your  highness  suppose  they  are  near  » 

Abou  Malek.  Oh  Prophet !  great  Prophet !— if  ever  l 
come 

To  bliss,  I  entreat  let  my  Houri  be  dumb  . 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


io2 

Give  that  clapper  a  holiday  once  in  thy  life. 

But  come  thou  to  my  bosom,  my  friend,  and  my  wife ! 

[2b  Fatima. 

Thy  silence,  thy  gentleness,  ever  must  please. 

Alas — I  forgot — you  may  give  me  the  keys. 

Fatima.  The  keys,  my  dread  Lord? — give  me  time  to 
prepare, 

I  have  lost  them,  mislaid  them — can’t  tell  where  they  are. 
Abou  Malek.  You  have  lost  them  !  mislaid  them !  oh 
ominous  word ! 

The  keys,  in  an  instant ! 

Fatima  [kneeling  and  covering  her  face).  Receive  them, 
my  Lord  ! 

Abou  Malek  [After  looking  at  the  keys ,  he  drops  them.) 
And  art  thou  detected,  whom  least  I  suspected  ? 

Oh  prophetess  !  prophetess  !  great  was  thy  skill  ! 
Ayesha  [flinging  herself  at  his  feet).  It  all  was  my  doing  ! 
mine,  mine,  be  the  ruin ! 

But  do  not,  oh  do  not  your  Fatima  kill ! 

Abou  Malek  [turning  away  from  Fatima).  I  dare 
not  behold  thee, — should  my  arms  once  enfold  thee, 
My  purpose,  I  feel,  in  a  moment  would  cool. 

Ayesha  [aside  to  Fatima).  Yet,  yet  I  would  try  him. — 
with  compliments  ply  him : 

A  husband,  well  flatter’d,  is  always  a  fool. — 

Fatima.  Is  pity  so  strange  to  a  conqueror’s  bosom  ? 

So  slight  an  offence  must  such  vengeance  pursue? 
Ayesha.  Was  your  father  a  wolf? — was  your  nurse  an 
opossum, 

That  your  heart  does  not  melt  her  distresses  to  view  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


153 


Fatima.  When  first  from  the  cot  of  my  father  you  bore 


me, 


I  hoped  for  protection  from  peril  and  scorn. 

Abou  Malek.  Oh  horror  to  see  thee  thus  kneeling 
before  me, 

And  kneeling  in  vain  !  I  have  sworn  !  I  have  sworn  ! 

[A  great  noise  without,  fire  of  musketry,  shouts,  &c. 
By  Heaven  !  are  these  Arabs  so  close  on  my  traces  ? 

Have  the  rascals  such  courage,  such  conduct  and  skill  ? 
For  a  moment  I  leave  thee,  ’twere  bliss  to  reprieve  thee, 
But  hope  not,  oh  hope  not  to  soften  my  will.  [Exit. 
Ayesha.  Thank  our  stars  !  he  is  gone,  and  the  castle’s 
surrounded ! 

And — oh  !  blessed  accident,  here  are  the  keys  ! 

I  swear  he  shall  keep  us  no  longer  impounded, 

Make  off ! — we  can  get  through  the  postern  with  ease. 
Oh  me  !  come  again. 

Re-enter  Abou  Malek,  who  catches  Fatima. 

Ayesha  escapes. 

Abou  Malek.  What,  ye  fiends  !  are  ye  flying  ? 

Have  ye  sold  me  to  fall  by  the  bands  of  Mount  Hor  ? 
Ayesha  (without).  Oh  hasten  to  rescue  a  lady  from  dying ! 

Oh  hasten,  Selim,  J’m  unbolting  the  door  ! 

Abou  Malek.  Is  it  thus?  Oh  I  thank  thee  for  giving 
me  rest; 

Thy  treason  has  taken  a  load  from  my  breast ! 

I  can  murther  thee  now  without  fear  of  relenting, 

And  fall,  if  my  doom  is  to  fall,  unrepenting ! 


164 


heber/s  poetical  works. 


But  live,  while  I  print  a  last  kiss  on  thy  brow, 

The  last  and  the  sweetest ! 

Selim  {rushing  in  with  a  drawn  sabre).  Now,  murderer, 
now ! 

Turn,  infidel  Giaour ! 

Abou  Maleic.  Is  the  lion  at  bay  ? 

Woe,  woe  to  the  hunter  who  stands  in  his  way !  [Fight. 
Ha  !  Peasant !  well  fought !  that  last  thrust  was  a  raker, 
And  my  business  —  will  soon  he  —  with  Monkir  —  and 
Hakir.  [Falls. 


Enter  Ayesha  and  Arabs. 

Abou  Maleic.  Oh  prophetess !  prophetess !  well  hast 
thou  said ! 

And  Fatima,  fear  not !  kneel  down  by  my  head  ! 

Believers — bear  witness  !  my  sins  to  atone, 

I  make  her  my  heiress — the  castle’s  her  own  ! 

Forgive  me  !  farewell — I  had  more — but  ’tis  past, 

The  first  of  my  wives  whom  I  loved  is — the  last !  [Dies. 

Shelch.  The  Bashaw  had  a  right  to  devise  his  estate, 
But  the  Shekh  of  Mount  Hor  has  a  hold  on  his  plate ! 

[ The  Shekh  and  his  Attendants  are  all  loaded  with  booty . 
Fatima.  Alas,  my  Lord  Shekh ! — you  can  ne’er  be 
repaid, 

For  your  generous  assistance  ! 

Shelch.  Pooh  !  fighting’s  my  trade ! 

But,  Selim,  in  my  mind,  ere  your  union  is  hurried, 

Abou  Malek  had  better  be  handsomely  buried. 

Of  weddings,  poor  man  !  he  abundance  has  seen, 

But  ’tis  always  unlucky  to  marry  thirteen  1 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


16 


TO 

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL  SIR  ROWLAND  HILL,  K.B. 

Hill  !  whose  high  daring  with  renew’d  success 
Hath  cheer’d  our  tardy  war,  what  time  the  cloud 
Of  expectation,  dark  and  comfortless, 

Hung  on  the  mountains ;  and  yon  factious  crowd 
Blasphemed  their  country’s  valour,  babbling  loud  ! 

Then  was  thine  arm  reveal’d,  to  whose  young  might, 
By  Toulon’s  leaguer’d  wall,  the  fiercest  bow’d ; 

Whom  Egypt  honour’d,  and  the  dubious  fight 
Of  sad  Corunna’s  winter,  and  more  bright 
Douro,  and  Talavera’s  gory  bays ; 

Wise,  modest,  brave,  in  danger  foremost  found. — 

So  still,  young  warrior,  may  thy  toil-earn’d  praise, 
With  England  s  love  and  England’s  honour  crown’d, 
Gild  with  delight  thy  father’s  latter  days ! 


LINES 

SPOKEN  IN  THE  THEATRE,  OXFORD, 

ON  LORD  GRENVILLE’S  INSTALLATION  AS  CHANCELLOR. 

Ye  viewless  guardians  of  these  sacred  shades, 
Dear  dreams  of  early  song,  Aonian  maids  ! — 
And  you,  illustrious  dead  !  whose  spirits  speak 
In  each  warm  flush  that  tints  the  student’s  cheek 


156  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

•  t 

As,  wearied  with  the  world,  he  seeks  again 
The  page  of  better  times  and  greater  men ; 

If  with  pure  worship  we  your  steps  pursue, 

And  youth,  and  health,  and  rest  forget  for  you, 

(Whom  most  we  serve,  to  whom  our  lamp  burns  bright, 
Through  the  long  toils  of  not  ingrateful  night,) 

Yet,  yet  be  present ! — Let  the  worldly  train 
Mock  our  cheap  joys,  and  hate  our  useless  strain, 
Intent  on  freighted  wealth,  or  proud  to  rear 
The  fleece  Iberian  or  the  pamper’d  steer ; — 

Let  sterner  science  with  unwearied  eye 
Explore  the  circling  spheres  and  map  the  sky ; 

His  long-drawn  mole  let  lordly  commerce  scan, 

And  of  his  iron  arch  the  rainbow  span : 

Yet,  while,  in  burning  characters  imprest, 

The  poet’s  lesson  stamps  the  youthful  breast ; 

Bids  the  rapt  boy  o’er  suffering  virtue  bleed, 

Adore  a  brave  or  bless  a  gentle  deed, 

And  in  warm  feeling  from  the  storied  page 
Arise  the  saint,  the  hero,  or  the  sage ; 

Such  be  our  toil ! — Nor  doubt  we  to  explore 
The  thorny  maze  of  dialectic  lore, 

To  climb  the  chariot  of  the  gods,  or  scan 
The  secret  workings  of  the  soul  of  man  ; 

Upborne  aloft  on  Plato’s  eagle  flight, 

Or  the  slow  pinion  of  the  Stagyrite. — 

And,  those  gray  spoils  of  Herculanean  pride, 

If  aught  of  yet  untasted  sweets  they  hide ; — 

If  Padua’s  sage  be  there,  or  art  have  power 
To  wake  Menander  from  his  secret  bower. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


157 


Such  be  our  toil ! — Nor  vain  the  labour  proves, 

Which  Oxford  honours,  and  which  Grenville  loves ! 
—On,  eloquent  and  firm  !— whose  warning  high 
Rebuked  the  rising  surge  of  anarchy,  • 

When,  like  those  brethren  stars  to  seamen  known, 

In  kindred  splendour  Pitt  and  Grenville  shone 
On  in  thy  glorious  course  !  not  yet  the  wave 
Has  ceased  to  lash  the  shore,  nor  storm  forgot  to  rave. 
Go  on  !  and  oh,  while  adverse  factions  raise 
To  thy  pure  worth  involuntary  praise ; 

While  Gambia’s  swarthy  tribes  thy  mercies  bless, 

And  from  thy  counsels  date  their  happiness ; 

Say,  (for  thine  Isis  yet  recalls  with  pride 
Thy  youthful  triumphs  by  her  leafy  side,) 

Say,  hast  thou  scorn’d,  ’mid  pomp,  and  wealth,  and  power, 
The  sober  transports  of  a  studious  hour  ?— 

No,  statesman,  no ! — thy  patriot  fire  was  fed 
Prom  the  warm  embers  ol  the  mighty  dead ; 

And  thy  strong  spirit’s  patient  grasp  combined 
The  souls  of  ages  in  a  single  mind. 

_ By  arts  like  these,  amidst  a  world  of  foes, 

Eye  of  the  earth,  th’  Athenian  glory  rose 
Thus  last  and  best  of  Romans,  Brutus  shone ; — 

Our  Somers  thus,  and  thus  our  Clarendon  ; 

Such  Cobham  was such,  Grenville,  long  be  thou, 

Our  boast  before, — our  chief  and  champion  now  . 


14 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  YOUNG  NAVAL  OFFICER. 

designed  for  a  tomb  in  a  seaport  town  in  north  wales. 


Sailor  !  if  vigour  nerve  thy  frame, 

If  to  high  deeds  thy  soul  is  strung, 

Revere  this  stone  that  gives  to  fame 

The  brave,  the  virtuous,  and  the  young ! — 

For  manly  beauty  deck’d  his  form, 

His  bright  eye  beam’d  with  mental  power ; 

Resistless  as  the  winter  storm, 

Yet  mild  as  summer’s  mildest  shower. — 

In  war’s  hoarse  rage,  in  ocean’s  strife, 

For  skill,  for  force,  for  mercy  known; 

Still  prompt  to  shield  a  comrade’s  life, 

And  greatly  careless  of  his  own. — 

Yet,  youthful  seaman,  mourn  not  thou 
The  fate  these  artless  lines  recall : 

No,  Cambrian  !  no,  be  thine  the  vow, 

Like  him  to  live,  like  him  to  fall ! 

But,  hast  thou  known  a  father’s  care, 

Who  sorrowing  sent  thee  forth  to  sea ; 

Pour’d  for  thy  weal  th’  unceasing  prayer, 

And  thought  the  sleepless  night  on  thee  ? — 

Has  e’er  thy  tender  fancy  flown, 

When  winds  were  strong  and  waves  were  high, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


159 


Where  listening  to  the  tempest’s  moan, 

Thy  sisters  heaved  the  anxious  sigh  ? 

Or  in  the  darkest  hour  of  dread, 

’Mid  war’s  wild  din,  and  ocean’s  swell, 
Hast  mourn’d  a  hero  brother  dead, 

And  did  that  brother  love  thee  well  ? 

Then  pity  those  whose  sorrows  flow 
In  vain  o’er  Shipley’s  empty  grave ! — 

— Sailor,  thou  weep’st : — indulge  thy  woe  ; 
Such  tears  will  not  disgrace  the  brave ! — ■ 


FRAGMENT  ON  ALCHEMY. 

***** 

So  fares  the  sage,  whose  mystic  labours  try 
The  thorny  path  of  fabled  alchemy. 

Time,  toil,  and  prayer,  to  aid  the  work  conspire, 
And  the  keen  jaws  of  dross-devouring  fire. 

In  one  dim  pile  discordant  embers  blaze, 

And  stars  of  adverse  influence  join  their  rays; 

Till  every  rite  perform’d,  and  labour  sped, 

When  the  clear  furnace  dawns  with  sacred  red, 
From  forth  the  genial  warmth  and  teeming  mould, 
The  bright- wing’d  radiance  bursts  of  infant  gold. 


1G0 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


HONOUR  ITS  OWN  REWARD. 

WRITTEN  WHEN  14  YEARS  OLD. 

Swell,  swell  the  shrill  trumpet  clear  sounding  afar, 
Our  sabres  flash  splendour  around, 

For  freedom  has  summon’d  her  sons  to  the  war, 

Nor  Britain  has  shrunk  from  the  sound. 

Let  plunder’s  vile  thirst  the  invaders  inflame, 

Let  slaves  for  their  wages  be  bold, 

Shall  valour  the  harvest  of  avarice  claim  ? 

Shall  Britons  be  barter’d  for  gold  ? 


No !  free  be  our  aid,  independent  our  might, 

Proud  honour  our  guerdon  alone ; 

Unhired  be  the  hand  that  we  raise  in  the  fight, 

The  sword  that  we  brandish  our  own. 

Still  all  that  we  love  to  our  thoughts  shall  succeed, 
Their  image  each  labour  shall  cheer, 

For  them  we  will  conquer, — for  them  we  will  bleed, 
And  our  pay  be  a  smile  or  a  tear ! 

And  oh  !  if  returning  triumphant  we  move, 

Or  sink  on  the  land  that  we  save, 

Oh !  blest  by  his  country,  his  kindred,  his  love, 
How  vast  the  reward  of  the  brave ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


161 


TIMOUR’S  COUNCILS. 

Emirs  and  Kh&ns  in  long  array, 

To  Timour’s  council  bent  their  way ; 

The  lordly  Tartar,  vaunting  high, 

The  Persian  with  dejected  eye, 

The  vassal  Russ,  and,  lured  from  far, 
Circassia’s  mercenary  war. 

But  one  there  came,  uncall’d  and  last, 

The  spirit  of  the  wintry  blast! 

He  mark’d,  while  wrapt  in  mist  he  stood, 
The  purposed  track  of  spoil  and  blood ; 
He  mark’d,  unmoved  by  mortal  woe, 

That  old  man’s  eye  of  swarthy  glow ; 

That  restless  soul,  whose  single  pride 
Was  cause  enough  that  millions  died; 

He  heard,  he  saw,  till  envy  woke, 

And  thus  the  voice  of  thunder  spoke : 

“  And  hop’st  thou  thus,  in  pride  unfurl’d, 
To  bear  those  banners  through  the  world  ? 
Can  time  nor  space  thy  toils  defy  ? 

Oh  king,  thy  fellow-demon  I ! 

Servants  of  Death,  alike  we  sweep 
The  wasted  earth,  or  shrinking  deep, 

And  on  the  land,  and  o’er  the  wave, 

We  reap  the  harvest  of  the  grave. 

But  thickest  then  that  harvest  lies, 

And  wildest  sorrows  rend  the  skies, 

14* 


102 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  darker  cloud  the  vultures  sail, 

And  richer  carnage  taints  the  gale, 

And  few  the  mourners  that  remain 
When  winter  leagues  with  Tamerlane ! 

But  on,  to  work  our  lord’s  decree ; 

Then,  tyrant,  turn,  and  cope  with  me  ! 
And  learn,  though  far  thy  trophies  shine, 
How  deadlier  are  my  blasts  than  thine  ! 
Nor  cities  burnt,  nor  blood  of  men, 

Nor  thine  own  pride  shall  warn  thee  then ! 
Forth  to  thy  task !  We  meet  again 
On  wild  Chabanga’s  frozen  plain  I” 


THE  SPRING  JOURNEY. 

Oh  !  green  was  the  corn  as  I  rode  on  my  way, 

And  bright  were  the  dews  on  the  blossoms  of  May, 
And  dark  was  the  sycamore’s  shade  to  behold, 

And  the  oak’s  tender  leaf  was  of  emerald  and  gold. 

The  thrush  from  his  holly,  the  lark  from  his  cloud, 
Their  chorus  of  rapture  sung  jovial  and  loud  ; 

From  the  soft  vernal  sky,  to  the  soft  grassy  ground, 
There  was  beauty  above  me,  beneath,  and  around. 


■■■■■■■■■■ 


MISCELLANEOUS.  163 

The  mild  southern  breeze  brought  a  shower  from  the  hill, 
And  yet  though  it  left  me  all  dropping  and  chill, 

I  felt  a  new  pleasure,  as  onward  I  sped, 

To  gaze  where  the  rainbow  gleam’d  broad  over  head. 

Oh,  such  be  life’s  journey,  and  such  be  our  skill, 

To  lose  in  its  blessings  the  sense  of  its  ill ; 

Through  sunshine  and  shower  may  our  progress  be  even, 
And  our  tears  add  a  charm  to  the  prospect  of  Heaven ! 


HAPPINESS. 

One  morning  in  the  month  of  May 
I  wander’d  o’er  the  hill ; 

Though  nature  all  around  was  gay, 

My  heart  was  heavy  still. 

Can  God,  I  thought,  the  good,  the  great, 
These  meaner  creatures  bless, 

And  yet  deny  our  human  state 
The  boon  of  happiness  ? 

Tell  me,  ye  woods,  ye  smiling  plains, 

Ye  blessed  birds  around, 

Where,  in  creation’s  wide  domains, 

Can  perfect  bliss  be  found  ? 

The  birds  wild  caroll’d  over  head, 

The  breeze  around  me  blew, 


104  * 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  nature’s  awful  chorus  said, 

No  bliss  for  man  she  knew ! 

I  question’d  Love,  whose  early  ray 
So  heavenly  bright  appears ; 

And  Love,  in  answer,  seem’d  to  say, 

His  light  was  dimm’d  by  tears. 

I  question’d  Friendship — Friendship  mourn’d, 
And  thus  her  answer  gave  : 

The  friends  whom  fortune  had  not  turn’d 
Were  vanish’d  in  the  grave ! 

I  ask’d  of  Feeling, — if  her  skill 
Could  heal  the  wounded  breast? 

And  found  her  sorrows  streaming  still, 

For  others’  griefs  distrest. 

I  ask’d  if  Vice  could  bliss  bestow  ? 

Vice  boasted  loud  and  well : 

But,  fading  from  her  pallid  brow, 

The  venom’d  roses  fell. 

I  question’d  Virtue, — Virtue  sigh’d, 

No  boon  could  she  dispense; 

Nor  Virtue  was  her  name,  she  cried, 

But  humble  Penitence ! 

I  question’d  Death, — the  grisly  shade 
Relax’d  his  brow  severe  ; 

And,  “  I  am  Happiness,”  he  said, 

“  If  Virtue  guides  thee  here  I” 


» 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


105 


ON  HEAVENLY  AND  EARTHLY  HOPE. 

Reflected  on  the  lake,  I  love 
To  see  the  stars  of  evening  glow, 

•  So  tranquil  in  the  heaven  above, 

So  restless  in  the  wave  below. 

Thus  heavenly  hope  is  all  serene, 

But  earthly  hope,  how  bright  soe’er, 
Still  fluctuates  o’er  this  changing  scene 
As  false  and  fleeting  as  ’tis  fair. 


MAN’S  PILGRIMAGE. 

♦ 

Oh  for  the  morning  gleam  of  youth,  the  half-unfolded  flower 

That  sparkles  in  the  diamond  dew  of  that  serener  hour, 

What  time  the  broad  and  level  sun  shone  gaily  o’er  the  sea, 

And  in  the  woods  the  birds  awoke  to  songs  of  ecstasy. 

The  sun,  that  gilds  the  middle  arch  of  man’s  maturer  day, 

Smites  heavy  on  the  pilgrim’s  head,  who  plods  his  dusty 
way ; 

The  birds  are  fled  to  deeper  shades — the  dewy  flowers  are 
dried, 

And  hope  that  with  the  day  was  born,  before  the  day  has 
died ; 

For  who  can  promise  to  his  soul  a  tranquil  eventide  ? 


r* 


■K 

m 


166  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Yes — though  the  dew  will  gleam  anew — though  from  its 
western  sky 

The  sun  will  give  as  mild  a  ray  as  morning  could  sipply-- 

Though  from  her  tufted  thorn  again  will  sing  the  nightin- 
gale, 

Yet  little  will  the  ear  of  age  enjoy  the  tender  tale ; 

And  night  will  find  us  toiling  on  with  joyless  travail  worn, 

For  day  must  pass,  and  night  must  come,  before  anothei 
morn, 


FAREWELL. 

When  eyes  are  beaming 

What  never  tongue  might  tell ; 

When  tears  are  streaming 
From  their  crystal  cell, 

When  hands  are  link’d  that  dread  to  part, 
And  heart  is  met  by  throbbing  heart, 

Oh  bitter,  bitter  is  the  smart 
Of  them  that  bid  farewell ! 

When  hope  is  chidden 

That  fain  of  bliss  would  tell, 

And  love  forbidden 
In  the  breast  to  dwell, 

When,  fetter’d  by  a  viewless  chain, 

We  turn  and  gaze  and  turn  again, 

Oh  death  were  mercy  to  the  pain 
Of  those  that  bid  farewell! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  OUTWARD-BOUND  SHIP. 

As  borne  along  with  favouring  gale 
And  streamers  waving  bright, 

How  gladly  sweeps  the  glancing  sail 
O’er  yonder  sea  of  light ! 

With  painted  sides  the  vessel  glides, 

In  seeming  revelry ; 

And  still  we  hear  the  sailor’s  cheer 
Around  the  capstan  tree. 

Is  sorrow  there  where  all  is  fair, 

Where  all  is  outward  glee  ? 

Go,  fool,  to  yonder  mariner, 

And  he  shall  lesson  thee ! 

Upon  that  deck  walks  tyrant  sway 
Wild  as  his  conquer’d  wave, 

And  murmuring  hate  that  must  obey ; 
The  captain  and  his  slave. 

And  pinching  care  is  lurking  there, 

And  dark  ambition’s  swell, 

And  some  that  part  with  bursting  heart 
From  objects  loved  too  well; 

And  many  a  grief  with  gazing  fed 
On  yonder  distant  shore, 

And  many  a  tear  in  secret  shed 
For  friends  beheld  no  more; 


.68 


IlEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  sails  the  ship  with  streamers  drest 
And  shouts  of  seeming  glee : 

Oh  God !  how  loves  the  mortal  breast 
To  hide  its  misery  ! 


— ♦ — 

TO  CHAUNCEY  HARE  TOWNSHEND, 

ON  HIS  LINES  PRAISING  THE  TRANQUILLITY  OP  A  RIVER,  WHILE  THE  SEA  WAS 
HEARD  ON  THE  NEIGHBOURING  SHORE. 

(See  Townshend’s  Poems,  p.  206.) 

Oh  Townshend !  couldst  thou  linger  where  scarce  a  ripple 
play’d 

Across  the  lily’s  glossy  stem,  or  beneath  the  willow’s  shade, 
And  did  that  mighty  chorus  allure  thy  bark  in  vain, 

The  laughter  of  the  dancing  waves  and  music  of  the  main  ? 

The  breeze  may  tell  his  story  of  soft  and  still  delight, 

As  whispering  through  the  woodbine  bower  he  fans  the 
cheek  of  night, 

But  louder,  blither,  sings  the  wind,  his  carol  wild  and  free, 
When  the  harvest  moon  sails  forth  in  pride  above  her  sub¬ 
ject  sea. 

I  love  to  thread  the  little  paths  the  rushy  hanks  between, 
Where  Terne,  in  dewy  silence,  creeps  through  the  meadow 
green : 

I  love  to  mark  the  speckled  trout  beneath  the  sunbeam  lie, 
And  skimming  past,  on  filmy  wing,  the  danger-courting  fly 


* 


MISCELLANEOUS.  169 

I  praise  the  darker  shadows  where,  o’er  the  runnel  lone, 
The  regal  oak  or  swarthy  pine  their  giant  arms  have  thrown, 
Or,  from  his  couch  of  heather,  where  Skiddaw  bends  to  view 
The  furrows  of  his  rifted  brow  in  Derwent’s  mirror  blue. 

But  not  that  narrow  stillness  has  equal  charms  for  me, 
With  thy  ten  thousand  voices,  thou  broad  exulting  sea! 
Thy  shining  sands,  thy  rugged  shores,  thy  breakers  rolling 
bright, 

And  all  thy  dim  horizon  speck’d  with  sails  of  moving  light. 

Oft  on  thy  wonders  may  I  gaze,  oft  on  thy  waters  ride. 
Oft  with  no  timid  arm  essay  thy  dark  transparent  tide ; 
Oft  may  thy  sound  be  in  my  dreams,  far  inland  though  I  be, 
For  health  and  hope  are  in  thy  song,  thou  deep  full-voiced 
sea. 


/ 


ON 


CROSSING  THE  RANGE  OF  HIGH  LAND  BETWEEN 
STONE  AND  MARKET  DRAYTON, 


Jan.  4,  1820. 

Dread  inmate  of  the  northern  zone  ! 
And  hast  thou  left  thine  ancient  throne 
On  Zembla’s  hills  of  snow, 

Thine  arrowy  sleet  and  icy  shower 
On  us,  unbroken  to  thy  power, 

With  reckless  hand  to  throw  ? 


16 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Enough  for  us  thy  milder  sway, 

The  yellow  mist,  the  shorten’d  day, 

The  sun  of  fainter  glow ; 

The  frost  which  scarce  our  verdure  felt, 
And  rarely  seen,  and  but  to  melt, 

The  wreath  of  transient  snow. 

I  met  thee  once  by  Volga’s  tide, 

Nor  fear’d  thy  terrors  to  abide 
On  Valdai’s  sullen  brow ; 

But  little  thought  on  English  down 
Thy  darkest  wrath  and  fiercest  frown 
So  soon  again  to  know. 

Oh  for  my  schube’s  accustom’d  fold, 

Which  then,  in  ample  bear-skin  roll’d, 
Defied  thy  dread  career  ! 

Oh  for  the  cap  of  sable  warm, 

Which  guarded  then  from  pinching  harm 
My  nose,  and  cheek,  and  ear ! 

Mine  old  kibitka ,  where  art  thou  ? 

Gloves,  hoots,  peketch , — I  need  ye  now, — 
Sold  to  a  Lemberg  Jew  ! 

In  single  vest,  on  Ashley  Heath, 

My  shrinking  heart  is  cold  as  death, 

And  fingers  ghastly  blue  1 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  MRS.  HEBER. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love, 

How  fast  would  evening  fail 
In  green  Bengala’s  palmy  grove, 
Listening  the  nightingale  ! 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side, 

My  babies  at  my  knee, 

How  gaily  would  our  pinnace  glide 
O’er  Gunga’s  mimic  sea ! 

I  miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray, 

When,  on  our  deck  reclined, 

In  careless  ease  my  limbs  I  lay 
And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 

I  miss  thee  when  by  Gunga’s  stream 
My  twilight  steps  I  guide, 

But  most  beneath  the  lamp’s  pale  beam 
I  miss  thee  from  my  side. 

I  spread  my  books,  my  pencil  try 
The  lingering  noon  to  cheer, 

But  miss  thy  kind  approving  eye, 

Thy  meek  attentive  ear. 

But  when  of  morn  and  eve  the  star 
Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 

I  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 


m 


172  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Then  on !  then  on  !  where  duty  leads, 

My  course  be  onward  still, 

O’er  broad  Hindostan’s.  sultry  mead, 

O’er  bleak  Almorah’s  hill. 

That  course  nor  Delhi’s  kingly  gates,- 
Nor  wild  Malwah  detain; 

For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits 
By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they  say, 
Across  the  dark  blue  sea, 

But  ne’er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 
As  then  shall  meet  in  thee  1 


♦ 


AN  EVENING  WALK  IN  BENGAL. 

Our  task  is  done  !  on  Gunga’s  breast 
The  sun  is  sinking  down  to  rest ; 

And,  moor’d  beneath  the  tamarind  bough, 
Our  bark  has  found  its  harbour  now. 

With  furled  sail  and  painted  side 
Behold  the  tiny  frigate  ride. 

Upon  her  deck,  ’mid  charcoal  gleams, 

The  Moslem’s  savoury  supper  steams ; 
While  all  apart  beneath  the  wood, 

The  Hindoo  cooks  his  simpler  food. 


* 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


J*e 

ife 


173 


Come  walk  with  me  the  jungle  through. 
If  yonder  hunter  told  us  true, 

Far  off  in  desert  dank  and  rude, 

The  tiger  holds  its  solitude : 

Nor  (taught  by  recent  harm  to  shun 
The  thunders  of  the  English  gun) 

A  dreadful  guest  but  rarely  seen, 

Returns  to  scare  the  village  green. 

Come  boldly  on  !  no  venom’d  snake 
Can  shelter  in  so  cool  a  brake. 

Child  of  the  Sun  !  he  loves  to  lie 
’Midst  Nature’s  embers,  parch’d  and  dry, 
Where  o’er  some  tower  in  ruin  laid, 

The  peepul  spreads  its  haunted  shade ; 

Or  round  a  tomb  his  scales  to  wreathe, 

Fit  warder  in  the  gate  of  Death. 

Come  on  !  yet  pause  !  Behold  us  now 
Beneath  the  bamboo’s  arched  bough, 

Where  gemming  oft  that  sacred  gloom 
Glows  the  geranium’s  scarlet  bloom,* 

And  winds  our  path  through  many  a  bower 
Of  fragrant  tree  and  giant  flower ; 

The  Ceiba’s  crimson  pomp  display’d 
O’er  the  broad  plantain’s  humbler  shade, 
And  dusk  anana’s  prickly  glade  ; 

While  o’er  the  brake,  so  wild  and  fair 
The  betel  waves  his  crest  in  air. 


*  A  shrub  whose  deep  scarlet  flowers  very  much  resemble  the  geranium,  and  thence 
tolled  the  Indian  geranium. 

15  • 


174 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

With  pendent  train  and  rushing  wings 
Aloft  the  gorgeous  peacock  springs ; 

And  he  the  bird  of  hundred  dyes,*  . 

Whose  plumes  the  dames  of  Ava  prize. 

So  rich  a  shade,  so  green  a  sod, 

Our  English  fairies  never  trod  ! 

Yet  who  in  Indian  bowers  has  stood, 

But  thought  on  England’s  “  good  greenwood 
And  bless’d,  beneath  the  palmy  shade, 

Her  hazel  and  her  hawthorn  glade, 

And  breath’d  a  prayer,  (how  oft  in  vain  !) 
To  gaze  upon  her  oaks  again  ? 

A  truce  to  thought, — the  jackal’s  cry 
Resounds  like  sylvan  revelry ;  . 

And  through  the  trees  yon  failing  ray 
Will  scantly  serve  to  guide  our  way. 

Yet  mark,  as  fade  the  upper  skies, 

Each  thicket  opes  ten  thousand  eyes. 

Before,  beside  us,  and  above, 

The  fire-fly  lights  his  lamp  of  love, 
Retreating,  chasing,  sinking,  soaring, 

The  darkness  of  the  copse  exploring. 

While  to  this  cooler  air  confest, 

The  broad  Dhatura  bares  her  breast, 

Of  fragrant  scent  and  virgin  white, 

A  pearl  around  the  locks  of  night ! 

Still  as  we  pass  in  soften’d  hum 
Along  the  breezy  alleys  come 
The  village  song,  the  horn,  the  drum. 


*  The  Mucharuoga. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


175 


Still  as  we  pass,  from  bush  and  briar, 

The  shrill  Cigala  strikes  his  lyre ; 

And,  what  is  she  whese  liquid  strain 
Thrills  through  yon  copse  of  sugar-cane  ? 

I  know  that  soul-entrancing  swell, 

It  is — it  must  be — Philomel ! 

Enough,  enough,  the  rustling  trees 
Announce  a  shower  upon  the  breeze, 

The  flashes  of  the  summer  sky 
Assume  a  deeper,  ruddier  dye ; 

Yon  lamp  that  trembles  on  the  stream, 
From  forth  our  cabin  sheds  its  beam ; 

And  we  must  early  sleep  to  find 
Betimes  the  morning’s  healthy  wind. 

But  oh !  with  thankful  hearts  confess 
E’en  here  there  may  be  happiness  ; 

And  He,  the  bounteous  Sire,  has  given 
His  peace  on  earth, — his  hope  of  Heaven  ! 


— * — 

INSCRIPTION, 

PROPOSED  FOR  THE  VASE  PRESENTED  TO  SIR  WATKIN  WILLIAMS  WYNN, 
BY  THE  NOBILITY  AND  GENTRY  OF  DENBIGHSHIRE,  AT  THE 
CONCLUSION  OF  THE  WAR  IN  1815. 

“Ask  ye  why  around  me  twine 
Tendrils  of  the  Gascon  vine  ? 

Ask  ye,  why  in  martial  pride. 

Sculptured  laurels  deck  my  side, 


176 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


c> 


Blended  with  that  noble  tree, 

Badge  of  Albion’s  liberty  ? 

Cambria  me,  for  glory  won 
By  the  waves  of  broad  Garonne, 

Sends  to  greet  her  bravest  son  ; 

Proved  beyond  the  western  deep, 

By  rebel  clans  on  Ulster’s  steep  ; 
Proved,  where  first,  on  Gallia’s  plain, 
The  banish’d  lily  bloom’d  again  ; 

And  proved  where  ancient  bounty  calls 
The  traveller  to  his  father’s  halls ! 

Nor  marvel,  then,  that  round  me  twine 
The  oak,  the  laurel,  and  the  vine : 

For  thus  was  Cambria  wont  to  see 
Her  Hirlas-horn  of  victory : 

Nor  Cambria  e’er,  in  days  of  yore, 

To  worthier  chief  the  Hirlas  bore  1” 


THE  WELL  OF  OBLIVION. 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  STANZA  IN  THE  OREANDO  INNAMORATO  OF  BOIARDO 

There  is,  they  say,  a  secret  well, 

In  Ardennes’  forest  gray,. 

Whose  waters  boast  a  numbing  spell, 

That  memory  must  obey. 

Who  tastes  the  rill  so  cool  and  calm 
In  passion’s  wild  distress, 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Their  breasts  imbibe  the  sullen  balm 
Of  deep  forgetfulness. 

And  many  a  maid  has  sought  the  grove, 
And  bow’d  beside  the  wave  ; 

But  few  have  borne  to  lose  the  love 
That  wore  them  to  the  grave. 

No !  by  these  tears,  whose  ceaseless  smart 
My  reason  chides  in  vain  ; 

By  all  the  secret  of  a  heart 
That  never  told  its  pain ; 

By  all  the  walks  that  once  were  dear, 
Beneath  the  greenwood  bough ; 

By  all  the  songs  that  soothed  his  ear 
Who  will  not  listen  now ; 

By  every  dream  of  hope  gone  by 
That  haunts  my  slumber  yet, — 

A  love-sick  heart  may  long  to  die, 

But  never  to  forget ! 

— — 

THE  ORACLE. 

IH1TATED  FROM  THK  GREEK. 

To  Phoebus’  shrine  three  youths  of  fame, 

A  wrestler,  boxer,  racer  came, 

And  begg’d  the  Delphic  god  to  say, 
Which  from  the  next  Olympic  game 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Should  bear  the  envied  wreath  away  ? 
And  thus  the  oracle  decided : — 

“  Be  victors  all,  brave  youths,  this  day, 
Each  in  your  several  arts  ! — provided 
That  none  outstrip  the  racer  s  feet, 

None  at  his  trade  the  boxer  beat, 

None  in  the  dust  the  wrestler  lay  !'* 


HYMNS. 


ADVENT  SUNDAY. 

Hosanna  to  the  living  Lord ! 

Hosanna  to  the  incarnate  Word! 

To  Christ,  Creator,  Saviour,  King, 

Let  earth,  let  Heaven,  Hosanna  sing ! 

Hosanna !  Lord  !  Hosanna  in  the  highest ! 

Hosanna,  Lord !  Thine  angels  cry ; 

Hosanna,  Lord  !  Thy  saints  reply ; 

Above,  beneath  us,  and  around, 

The  dead  and  living  swell  the  sound 

Hosanna  !  Lord  !  Hosanna  in  the  highest ! 

Oh,  Saviour  !  with  protecting  care, 

Return  to  this  Thy  house  of  prayer ! 

Assembled  in  Thy  sacred  name, 

Where  we  Thy  parting  promise  claim ! 

Hosanna  !  Lord  !  Hosanna  in  the  highest ! 

But,  chiefest,  in  our  cleansed  breast, 

Eternal !  bid  Thy  spirit  rest, 

And  make  our  secret  soul  to  be 
A  temple  pure,  and  worthy  Thee ! 

Hosanna !  Lord  !  Hosanna  in  the  highest  ? 

(179) 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


So,  in  the  last  and  dreadful  day, 

When  earth  and  heaven  shall  melt  away, 

Thy  flock,  redeem’d  from  sinful  stain, 

Shall  swell  the  sound  of  praise  again : 

Hosanna  !  Lord  !  Hosanna  in  the  highest 


■  ♦ 

SECOND  SUNDAY  IN  ADYENT. 


NO.  I. 

The  Lord  will  come !  the  earth  shall  quake, 
The  hills  their  fix£d  seat  forsake ; 

And,  withering,  from  the  vault  of  night 
The  stars  withdraw  their  feeble  light. 

The  Lord  will  come !  but  not  the  same 
As  once  in  lowly  form  He  came, 

A  silent  Lamb  to  slaughter  led, 

The  bruised,  the  suffering,  and  the  dead. 

The  Lord  will  come  !  a  dreadful  form, 

With  wreath  of  flame,  and  robe  of  storm, 
On  cherub  wings,  and  wings  of  wind, 
Anointed  Judge  of  human-kind! 

Can  this  be  He  who  wont  to  stray 
A  pilgrim  on  the  world’s  highway ; 

By  power  oppress’d,  and  mock’d  by  pride  T 
Oh  God  !  is  this  the  crucified  ? 


HYMNS. 


18] 


Go,  tyrants  !  to  the  rocks  complain  ! 
Go,  seek  the  mountains  cleft  in  vain  ! 
But  faith,  victorious  o’er  the  tomb, 
Shall  sing  for  joy — the  Lord  is  come  ! 


SECOND  SUNDAY  IN  ADVENT. 


no.  n. 

In  the  sun  and  moon  and  stars 
Signs  and  wonders  there  shall  be ; 

Earth  shall  quake  with  inward  wars, 
Nations  with  perplexity. 

Soon  shall  ocean’s  hoary  deep, 

Toss’d  with  stronger  tempests,  rise ; 

Darker  storms  the  mountains  sweep, 
Redder  lightning  rend  the  skies. 

Evil  thoughts  shall  shake  the  proud, 
Racking  doubt  and  restless  fear ; 

And,  amid  the  thunder-cloud, 

Shall  the  Judge  of  men  appear. 

But  though  from  that  awful  face 

Heaven  shall  fade  and  earth  shall  fly, 

Fear  not  ye,  His  chosen  race, 

Your  redemption  draweth  nigh ! 


16 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THIRD  SUNDAY  IN  ADVENT. 

Oh,  Saviour,  is  Thy  promise  fled  ? 

Nor  longer  might  Thy  grace  endure, 

To  heal  the  sick  and  raise  the  dead, 

And  preach  Thy  Gospel  to  the  poor  ? 

Come  Jesus  !  come  !  return  again  ; 

With  brighter  beam  Thy  servants  bless, 

Who  long  to  feel  thy  perfect  reign, 

And  share  Thy  kingdom’s  happiness  ! 

A  feeble  race,  by  passion  driven, 

In  darkness  and  in  doubt  we  roam, 

And  lift  our  anxious  eyes  to  Heaven, 

Our  hope,  our  harbour,  and  our  home ! 

Yet,  'mid  the  wild  and  wintry  gale, 

When  death  rides  darkly  o’er  the  sea, 

And  strength  and  earthly  daring  fail, 

Our  prayers,  Redeemer  !  rest  on  Thee  ! 

Come,  Jesus !  come  !  and,  as  of  yore 
The  prophet  went  to  clear  Thy  way, 

A  harbinger  Thy  feet  before, 

A  dawning  to  Thy  brighter  day : 

So  now  may  grace  with  heavenly  shower 
Our  stony  hearts  for  truth  prepare  ; 

Sow  in  our  souls  the  seed  of  power, 

Then  come  and  reap  Thy  harvest  there 


HYMNS. 


18S 


FOURTH  SUNDAY  IN  ADVENT. 

The  world  is  grown  old,  and  her  pleasures  are  past ; 
The  world  is  grown  old,  and  her  form  may  not  last ; 

The  world  is  grown  old,  and  trembles  for  fear  ; 

For  sorrows  abound,  and  judgment  is  near  ; 

The  sun  in  the  heaven  is  languid  and  pale ; 

And  feeble  and  few  are  the  fruits  of  the  vale : 

And  the  hearts  of  the  nations  fail  them  for  fear, 

For  the  world  is  grown  old,  and  judgment  is  near ! 

The  king  on  his  throne,  the  bride  in  her  bower, 

The  children  of  pleasure  all  feel  the  sad  hour  ; 

The  roses  are  faded,  and  tasteless  the  cheer, 

For  the  world  is  grown  old,  and  judgment  is  near  ! 

The  world  is  grown  old ! — but  should  we  complain, 

Who  have  tried  her  and  know  that  her  promise  is  vain  ? 
Our  heart  is  in  Heaven,  our  home  is  not  here, 

And  we  look  for  our  crown  when  judgment  is  near. 


CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

Oh  Saviour,  whom  this  holy  morn 
Gave  to  our  world  below  ; 

To  mortal  want  and  labour  born, 
And  more  than  mortal  woe ! 


184 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Incarnate  Word!  by  every  grief, 

By  each  temptation  tried, 

Who  lived  to  yield  our  ills  relief, 

.  And  to  redeem  us  died  ! 

If  gaily  clothed  and  proudly  fed, 

In  dangerous  wealth  we  dwell ; 

Remind  us  of  Thy  manger  bed, 

And  lowly  cottage  cell ! 

If  prest  by  poverty  severe, 

In  envious  want  we  pine, 

Oh  may  the  Spirit  whisper  near, 

How  poor  a  lot  was  Thine  ! 

Through  fickle  fortune’s  various  scene 
From  sin  preserve  us  free ! 

Like  us  thou  hast  a  mourner  been, 
May  we  rejoice  with  Thee ! 


ST.  STEPHEN'S  DAY. 

The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war, 
A  kingly  crown  to  gain : 

His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar ! 
Who  follows  in  His  train  ? 

Who  best  can  drink  his  cup  of  woe, 
Triumphant  over  pain, 


■ 


HYMNS. 

Who  patient  bears  his  cross  below, 

He  follows  in  His  train  ! 

The  martyr  first,  whose  eagle  eye 
Could  pierce  beyond  the  grave ; 

Who  saw  his  Master  in  the  sky, 

And  call’d  on  Him  to  save. 

Like  Him,  with  pardon  on  his  tongue 
In  midst  of  mortal  pain, 

He  pray’d  for  them  that  did  the  wrong ! 
Who  follows  in  his  train  ? 

A  glorious  band,  the  chosen  few 
On  whom  the  Spirit  came ; 

Twelve  valiant  saints,  their  hope  they  knew, 
And  mock’d  the  cross  and  flame. 

They  met  the  tyrant’s  brandish’d  steel, 

The  lion’s  gory  mane ; 

They  bow’d  their  necks  the  death  to  feel  I 
Who  follows  in  their  train? 

A  noble  army — men  and  boys, 

The  matron  and  the  maid, 

Around  the  Saviour’s  throne  rejoice, 

In  robes  of  light  array’d. 

They  climb’d  the  steep  ascent  of  Heaven, 
Through  peril,  toil,  and  pain  ! 

Oh  God !  to  us  may  grace  be  given 
To  follow  in  their  train ! 


185 


16* 


186 


HEBER'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ST.  JOHN  THE  EVANGELIST'S  DAY. 

Oh  God !  who  gav’st  Thy  servant  grace, 
Amid  the  storms  of  life  distrest, 

To  look  on  thine  incarnate  face, 

And  lean  on  Thy  protecting  breast : 

To  see  the  light  that  dimly  shone, 
Eclipsed  for  us  in  sorrow  pale, 

Pure  image  of  the  Eternal  One  ! 

Through  shadows  of  Thy  mortal  veil ! 

Be  ours,  0  King  of  Mercy !  still 
To  feel  Thy  presence  from  above, 

And  in  Thy  word,  and  in  Thy  will, 

To  hear  Thy  voice  and  know  Thy  love : 

And  when  the  toils  of  life  are  done, 

And  nature  waits  Thy  dread  decree, 

To  find  our  rest  beneath  Thy  throne, 

And  look,  in  humble  hope,  to  Thee. 


INNOCENT'S  DAY. 

Oh  weep  not  o’er  thy  children’s  tomb ! 

0  Rachel,  weep  not  so; 

The  bud  is  cropt  by  martyrdom, 

The  flower  in  heaven  shall  blow ! 


HYMNS. 


18 


Firstlings  of  faith !  the  murderer’s  knife 
Has  miss’d  its  deadliest  aim : 

The  God  for  whom  they  gave  their  life, 
For  them  to  suffer  came  ! 

Though  feeble  were  their  days  and  few, 
Baptized  in  blood  and  pain, 

He  knows  them,  whom  they  never  knew, 
And  they  shall  live  again. 

Then  weep  not  o’er  thy  children’s  tomb ; 

0  Rachel,  weep  not  so ! 

The  bud  is  cropt  by  martyrdom, 

The  flower  in  heaven  shall  blow  ! 


EPIPHANY. 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning ! 

Dawn  on  our  darkness  and  lend  us  Thine  aid ; 
Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 

Guide  where  our  infant  Redeemer  is  laid ! 

Cold  on  His  cradle  the  dew-drops  are  shining, 
Low  lies  His  head  with  the  beasts  of  the  stall ; 
Angels  adore  Him  in  slumber  reclining, 

Maker  and  Monarch  and  Saviour  of  all ! 

Say,  shall  we  yield  Him,  in  costly  devotion, 
Odours  of  Edom  and  offerings  divine  ? 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Gems  of  the  mountain  and  pearls  of  the  ocean, 
Myrrh  from  the  forest  or  gold  from  the  mine 

Vainly  we  offer  each  ample  oblation : 

Vainly  with  gifts  would  His  favour  secure: 
Richer  by  far  is  the  heart’s  adoration ; 

Dearer  to  God  are  the  prayers  of  the  poor. 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning ! 

Dawn  on  our  darkness  and  lend  us  Thine  aid 
Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 

Guide  where  our  infant  Redeemer  is  laid ! 


FIRST  SUNDAY  AFTER  EPIPHANY. 

NO.  I. 

Abash’d  be  all  the  boast  of  age ! 

Be  hoary  learning  dumb ! 
Expounder  of  the  mystic  page, 
Behold  an  Infant  come! 

Oh  Wisdom,  whose  unfading  power 
Beside  the  Eternal  stood, 

To  frame,  in  nature’s  earliest  houi, 
The  land,  the  sky,  the  flood : 

Yet  didst  not  thou  disdain  awhile 
An  infant  form  to  wear ; 

To  bless  Thy  mother  with  a  smile, 
And  lisp  Thy  falter’d  prayer. 


HYMNS. 


But  in  Thy  Father’s  own  abode, 
With  Israel’s  elders  round, 
Conversing  high  with  Israel’s  God, 
Thy  chiefest  joy  was  found. 

So  may  our  youth  adore  Thy  name ! 

And,  Saviour,  deign  to  bless 
With  fostering  grace  the  timid  flame 
Of  early  holiness ! 


FIRST  SUNDAY  AFTER  EPIPHANY. 

no.  n. 

By  cool  Siloam’s  shady  rill 
How  sweet  the  lily  grows ! 

How  sweet  the  breath  beneath  the  hill 
Of  Sharon’s  dewy  rose ! 

Lo !  such  the  child  whose  early  feet 
The  paths  of  peace  have  trod ; 

Whose  secret  heart,  with  influence  sweet, 
Is  upward  drawn  to  God ! 

By  cool  Siloam’s  shady  rill 
The  lily  must  decay ; 

The  rose  that  blooms  beneath  the  hill 
Must  shortly  fade  away. 

And  soon,  too  soon,  the  wintry  hour 
Of  man’s  maturer  age 


190 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Will  shake  the  soul  with  sorrow’s  power, 
And  stormy  passion’s  rage  ! 

0  Thou,  whose  infant  feet  were  found 
Within  Thy  Father’s  shrine  ! 

Whose  years,  with  changeless  virtue  crown’d, 
Were  all  alike  Divine ; 

Dependent  on  Thy  bounteous  breath, 

We  seek  Thy  grace  alone, 

In  childhood,  manhood,  age,  and  death, 

To  keep  us  still  Thine  own ! 


SECOND  SUNDAY  AFTER  EPIPHANY. 


NO.  I. 

Oh  hand  of  bounty,  largely  spread, 

By  whom  our  every  want  is  fed, 
Whate’er  we  touch,  or  taste,  or  see, 

We  owe  them  all,  oh  Lord !  to  Thee  : 
The  corn,  the  oil,  the  purple  wine, 

Are  all  Thy  gifts,  and  only  Thine ! 

The  stream  Thy  word  to  nectar  dyed, 
The  bread  Thy  blessing  multiplied, 

The  stormy  wind,  the  whelming  flood, 
That  silent  at  Thy  mandate  stood, 

How  well  they  knew  Thy  voice  Divine, 
Whose  works  they  were,  and  only  Thine ! 


V 


■ 


HYMNS. 


Though  now  no  more  on  earth  we  trace 
Thy  footsteps  of  celestial  grace, 
Obedient  to  Thy  word  and  will 
We  seek  Thy  daily  mercy  still ; 

Its  blessed  beams  around  us  shine, 

And  Thine  we  are,  and  only  Thine ! 


101 


SECOND  SUNDAY  AFTER  EPIPHANY. 

NO.  II. 

Incarnate  Word,  who,  wont  to  dwell 
In  lowly  shape  and  cottage  cell, 

Didst  not  refuse  a  guest  to  be, 

At  Cana’s  poor  festivity : 

Oh,  when  our  soul  from  care  is  free, 

Then,  Saviour,  may  we  think  on  Thee, 

And,  seated  at  the  festal  board, 

In  fancy’s  eye  behold  the  Lord. 

Then  may  we  seem,  in  fancy’s  ear, 

Thy  manna-dropping  tongue  to  hear, 

And  think, — even  now,  Thy  searching  gaze 
Each  secret  of  our  soul  surveys  ! 

So  may  such  joy,  chastised  and  pure, 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  earth  endure ! 

Nor  pleasure  in  the  wounded  mind 
Shall  leave  a  rankling  sting  behind. 


r 


UBS 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


92 


SECOND  SUNDAY  AFTER  EPIPHANY. 

NO.  III. 

When  on  her  Maker’s  bosom 
The  new-born  Earth  was  laid, 

And  Nature’s  opening  blossom 
Its  fairest  bloom  display’d ; 

When  all  with  fruit  and  flowers 
The  laughing  soil  was  drest, 

And  Eden’s  fragrant  bowers 
Received  their  human  guest ; 

No  sin  his  face  defiling, 

The  heir  of  nature  stood, 

And  God,  benignly  smiling, 

Beheld  that  all  was  good  ! 

Yet,  in  that  hour  of  blessing, 

A  single  want  was  known ; 

A  wish  the  heart  distressing ; 

For  Adam  was  alone ! 

Oh  God  of  pure  affection ! 

By  men  and  saints  adored, 

Who  gavest  Thy  protection 
To  Cana’s  nuptial  board  ; 

May  such  Thy  bounties  ever 
To  wedded  love  be  shown, 

And  no  rude  hand  dissever 

Whom  Thou  hast  link’d  in  one ! 


v 


HYMNS. 


193 


THIRD  SUNDAY  AFTER  EPIPHANY. 

Lord  !  whose  love,  in  power  excelling, 
Wash’d  the  leper’s  stain  away, 

Jesus  !  from  Thy  heavenly  dwelling, 
Hear  us,  help  us,  when  we  pray  ! 

From  the  filth  of  vice  and  folly, 

From  infuriate  passion’s  rage, 

Evil  thoughts  and  hopes  unholy, 
Heedless  youth  and  selfish  age ; 

From  the  lusts  whose  deep  pollutions 
Adam’s  ancient  taint  disclose, 

From  the  Tempter’s  dark  intrusions, 
Restless  doubt  and  blind  repose ; 

From  the  miser’s  cursed  treasure, 

From  the  drunkard’s  jest  obscene, 
From  the  world,  its  pomp  and  pleasure, 
Jesus  !  Master  !  make  us  clean  ! 


— * — 

FOURTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  EPIPHANY. 


NO.  I. 

When  through  the  torn  sail  the  wild  tempest  is  streaming, 
When  o’er  the  dark  wave  the  red  lightning  is  gleaming, 
Nor  hope  lends  a  ray  the  poor  seamen  to  cherish, 

We  fly  to  our  Maker— “  Help,  Lord !  or  we  perish  !” 

17 


194 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


■A 


Oh  Jesus !  once  toss’d  on  the  breast  of  the  billow, 
Aroused  by  the  shriek  of  despair  from  Thy  pillow, 

Now,  seated  in  glory,  the  mariner  cherish, 

Who  cries  in  his  danger — “  Help,  Lord  !  or  we  perish  !** 

And  oh,  when  the  whirlwind  of  passion  is  raging, 

When  hell  in  our  heart  his  wild  warfare  is  waging, 
Arise  in  Thy  strength  Thy  redeemed  to  cherish, 

Rebuke  the  destroyer — “  Help,  Lord  !  or  we  perish!1’ 


FOURTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  EPIPHANY. 


NO.  II. 

The  winds  were  howling  o’er  the  deep, 
Each  wave  a  wat’ry  hill, 

The  Saviour  waken’d  from  His  sleep, 
He  spake  and  all  was  still. 

The  madman  in  a  tomb  had  made 
His  mansion  of  despair ; 

Woe  to  the  traveller  who  stray’d 
With  heedless  footstep  there  ! 

The  chains  hung  broken  from  his  arm, 
Such  strength  can  hell  supply, 

And  fiendish  hate  and  fierce  alarm 
Flash’d  from  his  hollow  eye. 

He  met  that  glance  so  thrilling  sweet, 
lie  heard  those  accents  mild. 


HYMNS. 


195 


And,  melting  at  Messiah’s  feet, 

Wept  like  a  weaned  child. 

Oh  madder  than  the  raging  man ! 

Oh  deafer  than  the  sea ; 

How  long  the  time  since  Christ  began 
To  call  in  vain  on  me  ? 

He  call’d  me  when  my  thoughtless  prime 
Was  early  ripe  to  ill; 

I  pass’d  from  folly  on  to  crime, 

And  yet  He  call’d  me  still. 

He  call’d  me  in  the  time  of  dread, 

When  death  was  full  in  view, 

I  trembled  on  my  feverish  bed, 

And  rose  to  sin  anew  ! 

Yet  could  I  hear  Him  once  again 
As  I  have  heard  of  old, 

Methinks  he  should  not  call  in  vain 
His  wanderer  to  the  fold. 

Oh  Thou  that  every  thought  canst  know, 
And  answer  every  prayer ; 

Oh  give  me  sickness,  want,  or  woe, 

But  snatch  me  from  despair ! 

My  struggling  will  by  grace  control, 
Renew  my  broken  vow ! 

What  blessed  light  breaks  on  my  soul  ? 

Q  God  !  I  hear  Thee  now, 


196 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SFPTUAGE SIMA  SUNDAY. 

The  God  of  Glory  walks  His  round, 

From  day  to  day,  from  year  to  year, 

And  warns  us  each  with  awful  sound, 

“No  longer  stand  ye  idle  here ! 

“Ye  whose  young  cheeks  are  rosy  bright, 

Whose  hands  are  strong,  whose  hearts  are  clear 
Waste  not  of  hope  the  morning  light ! 

Ah  fools  !  why  stand  ye  idle  here  ? 

“  Oh,  as  the  griefs  ye  would  assuage 
That  wait  on  life’s  declining  year, 

Secure  a  blessing  for  your  age, 

And  work  your  Maker’s  business  here ! 

“  And  ye,  whose  locks  of  scanty  gray 
Foretell  your  latest  travail  near, 

How  swiftly  fades  your  worthless  day ! 

And  stand  ye  yet  so  idle  here  ? 

“  One  hour  remains,  there  is  but  one  ! 

But  many  a  shriek  and  many  a  tear 
Through  endless  years  the  guilt  must  moan 
Of  moments  lost  and  wasted  here  l” 

0  Thou,  by  all  thy  works  adored, 

To  whom  the  sinner’s  soul  is  dear, 

Recall  us  to  Thy  vineyard,  Lord  ! 

And  grant  us  grace  to  please  Thee  here ! 


HYMNS. 


197 


SEXAGESIMA  SUNDAY. 

Oh  God  !  by  whom  the  seed  is  given  ; 

By  whom  the  harvest  blest ; 

Whose  word,  like  manna  shower’d  from  Heaven, 
Is  planted  in  our  breast ; 

Preserve  it  from  the  passing  feet, 

And  plunderers  of  the  air  ; 

The  sultry  sun’s  intenser  heat, 

And  weeds  of  worldly  care ! 

Though  buried  deep  or  thinly  strewn, 

Do  Thou  Thy  grace  supply ; 

The  hope  in  earthly  furrows  sown 
Shall  ripen  in  the  sky ! 


QUINQUAGESIMA. 

Lore-  of  Mercy  and  of  Might, 

Of  mankind  the  life  and  light, 
Maker,  Teacher  infinite, 

Jesus,  hear  and  save  ! 

Who,  when  sin’s  primaeval  doom 
Gave  creation  to  the  tomb, 

Didst  not  scorn  a  Virgin’s  womb, 
Jesus,  hear  and  save  ! 

17* 


r 


H 


% 


■i 


198  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Strong  Creator,  Saviour  mild, 
Humbled  to  a  mortal  child, 
Captive,  beaten,  bound,  reviled, 
Jesus,  bear  and  save ! 

Throned  above  celestial  things, 
Borne  aloft  on  angels’  wings, 

Lord  of  lords,  and  King  of  kings, 
Jesus,  hear  and  save ! 

Soon  to  come  to  earth  again, 
Judge  of  angels  and  of  men, 

Hear  us  now,  and  hear  us  then, 
Jesus,  hear  and  save  ! 


THIRD  SUNDAY  IN  LENT. 

Virgin-born  !  we  bow  before  Thee ! 
Blessed  was  the  womb  that  bore  Thee ! 
Mary,  mother  meek  and  mild, 

Blessed  was  she  in  her  child ! 

Blessed  was  the  breast  that  fed  Thee ! 
Blessed  was  the  hand  that  led  Thee ! 
Blessed  was  the  parent’s  eye 
That  watch’d  Thy  slumbering  infancy ! 

Blessed  she  by  all  creation, 

Who  brought  forth  the  world’s  Salvation ! 
And  blessed  they,  for  ever  blest, 

Who  love  Thee  most  and  serve  Thee  best! 


HYMNS. 


Yirgin-born  !  we  bow  before  Thee  ! 
Blessed  was  the  womb  that  bore  Thee ! 
Mary,  mother  meek  and  mild, 

Blessed  was  she  in  her  child  ! 


FOURTH  SUNDAY  IN  LENT. 

Oh  King  of  earth  and  air  and  sea ! 

The  hungry  ravens  cry  to  Thee; 

To  Thee  the  scaly  tribes  that  sweep 
The  bosom  of  the  boundless  deep ; 

To  Thee  the  lions  roaring  call, 

The  common  Father,  kind  to  all ! 

Then  grant  Thy  servants,  Lord !  we  pray 
Our  daily  bread  from  day  to  day ! 

The  fishes  may  for  food  complain ; 

The  ravens  spread  their  wings  in  vain ; 
The  roaring  lions  lack  and  pine ! 

But,  God  !  Thou  carest  still  for  Thine  ! 

Thy  bounteous  hand  with  food  can  bless 
The  bleak  and  lonely  wilderness ; 

And  Thou  hast  taught  us,  Lord !  to  pray 
For  daily  bread  from  day  to  day ! 

And  oh,  when  through  the  wilds  we  roam 
That  part  us  from  our  heavenly  home ; 
When  lost  in  danger,  want,  and  woe, 

Our  faithless  tears  begin  to  flow ; 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Do  Thou  Thy  gracious  comfort  give, 

By  which  alone  the  soul  may  live ; 

And  grant  Thy  servants,  Lord !  we  pray, 
The  bread  of  life  from  day  to  day ! 


FIFTH  SUNDAY  IN  LENT. 

Oh  Thou  whom  neither  time  nor  space 
Can  circle  in,  unseen,  unknown, 

Nor  faith  in  boldest  flight  can  trace, 

Save  through  Thy  Spirit  and  Thy  Son ! 

And  Thou  that  from  Thy  bright  abode, 

To  us  in  mortal  weakness  shown, 

Didst  graft  the  manhood  into  God, 

Eternal,  co-eternal  Son ! 

And  Thou,  whose  unction  from  on  high 
By  comfort,  light,  and  love  is  known  ! 

Who,  with  the  parent  Deity, 

Dread  Spirit !  art  for  ever  one  ! 

Great  First  and  Last!  Thy  blessing  give! 
And  grant  us  faith,  Thy  gift  alone, 

To  love  and  praise  Thee  while  we  live, 

And  do  whate’er  Thou  wouldst  have  done! 


KB 


HYMNS. 


SIXTH  SUNDAY  IN  LENT. 

The  Lord  of  Might,  from  Sinai’s  brow, 
Gave  forth  His  voice  of  thunder  ; 
And  Israel  lay  on  earth  below, 
Outstretch’d  in  fear  and  wonder. 
Beneath  His  feet  was  pitchy  night, 

And  at  His  left  hand  and  His  right, 
The  rocks  were  rent  asunder ! 

The  Lord  of  Love,  on  Calvary, 

A  meek  and  suffering  stranger, 
Upraised  to  Heaven  His  languid  eye, 
In  nature’s  hour  of  danger. 

For  us  He  bore  the  weight  of  woe, 

For  us  He  gave  His  blood  to  flow, 

And  met  His  Father’s  anger. 

The  Lord  of  Love,  the  Lord  of  Might, 
The  King  of  all  created, 

Shall  back  return  to  claim  His  right, 
On  clouds  of  glory  seated ; 

With  trumpet-sound  and  angel-song, 
And  hallelujahs  loud  and  long 
O’er  death  and  hell  defeated ! 


201 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


GOOD  FRIDAY. 

Oh  more  than  merciful !  whose  bounty  gave 
Thy  guiltless  self  to  glut  the  greedy  grave ! 
Whose  heart  was  rent  to  pay  Thy  people’s  price ; 
The  great  High-priest  at  once  and  sacrifice ! 

Help,  Saviour,  by  thy  cross  and  crimson  stain, 
Nor  let  thy  glorious  blood  be  spilt  in  vain  ! 

When  sin  with  flowery  garland  hides  her  dart, 
When  tyrant  force  would  daunt  the  sinking  heart 
When  fleshly  lust  assails,  or  worldly  care, 

Or  the  soul  flutters  in  the  fowler’s  snare, — 

Help,  Saviour,  by  Thy  cross  and  crimson  stain, 
Nor  let  thy  glorious  blood  be  spilt  in  vain ! 

And,  chiefest  then,  when  nature  yields  the  strife, 
And  mortal  darkness  wraps  the  gate  of  life ; 
When  the  poor  spirit  from  the  tomb  set  free, 
Sinks  at  Thy  feet  and  lifts  its  hope  to  Thee, — 
Help,  Saviour,  by  Thy  cross  and  crimson  stain, 
Nor  let  Thy  glorious  blood  be  spilt  in  vain. 

— ♦ — 

EASTER  DAY. 

God  is  gone  up  with  a  merry  noise 
Of  saints  that  sing  on  high, 

With  His  own  right  hand  and  His  holy  arm 
He  hath  won  the  victory ! 


HYMNS. 


Now  empty  are  the  courts  of  death, 

And  crush’d  thy  sting,  despair ; 

And  roses  bloom  in  the  desert  tomb, 

For  Jesus  hath  been  there ! 

And  he  hath  tamed  the  strength  of  Hell, 
And  dragg’d  him  through  the  sky, 

And  captive  behind  His  chariot  wheel, 

He  hath  bound  captivity. 

God  is  gone  up  with  a  merry  noise 
Of  saints  that  sing  on  high ; 

With  his  own  right  hand  and  His  holy  arm 
He  hath  won  the  victory  ! 


FIFTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  EASTER. 

Life  nor  Death  shall  us  dissever 
From  His  love  who  reigns  for  ever : 
Will  He  fail  us  ?  Never  !  Never  ! 
When  to  Him  we  cry ! 

Sin  may  seek  to  snare  us, 

Fury  Passion  tear  us ! 

Doubt  and  Fear,  and  grim  Despair 
Their  fangs  against  us  try ; 

But  His  might  shall  still  defend  us, 
And  His  blessed  Son  befriend  us, 
And  His  Holy  Spirit  send  us 
Comfort  ere  we  die ! 


204 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ASCENSION  DAY  AND  SUNDAY  AFTER. 

“  Sit  Thou  on  my  right  hand,  my  Son  !”  saith  the  Lord. 

“  Sit  Thou  on  my  right  hand,  my  Son ! 

Till  in  the  fatal  hour 
Of  my  wrath,  and  my  power, 

Thy  foes  shall  be  a  footstool  to  Thy  throne !” 

“  Prayer  shall  be  made  to  Thee,  my  Son  !”  saith  the  Lord. 
“  Prayer  shall  be  made  to  Thee,  my  Son ! 

From  earth  and  air  and  sea, 

And  all  that  in  them  be, 

Which  Thou  for  thine  heritage  hast  won !” 

“  Daily  be  Thou  praised,  my  Son !”  saith  the  Lord. 

“  Daily  be  Thou  praised,  my  Son ! 

And  all  that  live  and  move, 

Let  them  bless  Thy  bleeding  love, 

And  the  work  which  Thy  worthiness  hath  done !” 

— « - 

WHITSUNDAY. 

Spirit  of  Truth  !  on  this  Thy  day 
To  Thee  for  help  we  cry, 

To  guide  us  through  the  dreary  way 
Of  dark  mortality. 

We  ask  not,  Lord  !  Thy  cloven  flame, 

Or  tongues  of  various  tone ; 


HYMNS 


But  long  Thy  praises  to  proclaim 
With  fervour  in  our  own. 

We  mourn  not  that  prophetic  skill 
Is  found  on  earth  no  more; 
Enough  for  us  to  trace  Thy  will 
In  Scripture’s  sacred  lore. 

We  neither  have  nor  seek  the  power 
Ill  demons  to  control ; 

But  Thou,  in  dark  temptation’s  hour, 
Shalt  chase  them  from  the  soul. 


No  heavenly  harpings  soothe  our  ear, 

No  mystic  dreams  we  share ; 

Yet  hope  to  feel  Thy  comfort  near, 

And  bless  Thee  in  our  prayer. 

When  tongues  shall  cease  and  power  decay, 
And  knowledge  empty  prove, 

Do  Thou  Thy  trembling  servants  stay 
With  Faith,  with  Hope,  with  Love! 


TRINITY  SUNDAY. 

Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord  God  Almighty ! 

Early  in  the  morning  our  song  shall  rise  to  thee ; 
Holy,  holy,  holy  !  merciful  and  mighty  ! 

God  in  three  persons,  blessed  Trinity ! 


i 


206 


IIEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Holy,  holy,  holy !  all  the  saints  adore  Thee, 

Casting  down  their  golden  crowns  around  the  glassy  sea ; 
Cherubim  and  seraphim  falling  down  before  Thee, 

Which  wTert  and  art  and  evermore  shalt  be ! 

Holy,  holy,  holy !  Though  the  darkness  hide  Thee, 
Though  the  eye  of  sinful  man  Thy  glory  may  not  see, 
Only  Thou  art  holy,  there  is  none  beside  Thee, 

Perfect  in  power,  in  love,  and  purity  ! 

Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord  God  Almighty ! 

All  Thy  works  shall  praise  Thy  name  in  earth  and  sky 
and  sea. 

Holy,  holy,  holy  !  merciful  and  mighty ! 

God  in  three  persons,  blessed  Trinity ! 


FIRST  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 


NO.  I. 

Room  for  the  proud !  Ye  sons  of  clay, 
Rrom  far  his  sweeping  pomp  survey, 
Nor,  rashly  curious,  clog  the  way 
His  chariot  wheels  before  ! 

Lo !  with  what  scorn  his  lofty  eye 
Glances  o’er  age  and  poverty, 

And  bids  intruding  conscience  flv 
Far  from  his  palace  door  I 


HYMNS. 


Room  for  the  proud !  but  slow  the  feet 
That  bear  his  coffin  down  the  street : 
And  dismal  seems  his  winding-sheet 
Who  purple  lately  wore  ! 

Ah  !  where  must  now  his  spirit  fly 
In  naked,  trembling  agony ; 

Or  how  shall  he  for  mercy  cry, 

Who  show’d  it  not  before  ! 

Room  for  the  proud !  in  ghastly  state 
The  lords  of  hell  his  coming  wait, 

And  flinging  wide  the  dreadful  gate 
That  shuts  to  ope  no  more. 

“  Lo  here  with  us  the  seat,”  they  cry, 
“  For  him  who  mock’d  at  poverty, 

And  bade  intruding  conscience  fly 
Far  from  his  palace  door.” 

— i — 

FIRST  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY, 


NO.  II. 

The  feeble  pulse,  the  gasping  breath, 
The  clenched  teeth,  the  glazed  eye, 
Are  these  thy  sting,  thou  dreadful  death 
0  grave,  are  those  thy  victory ! 

The  mourners  by  our  parting  bed, 

The  wife,  the  children  weeping  nigh, 


208 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  dismal  pageant  of  the  dead, — 
These,  these  are  not  thy  victory ! 

But  from  the  much-loved  world  to  part, 
Our  lust  untamed,  our  spirit  high, 

All  nature  struggling  at  the  heart, 
Which,  dying,  feels  it  dare  not  die  ! 

To  dream  through  life  a  gaudy  dream 
Of  pride  and  pomp  and  luxury, 

Till  waken’d  by  the  nearer  gleam 
Of  burning  boundless  agony ; 

To  meet  o’er-soon  our  angry  King, 
Whose  love  we  pass’d  unheeded  by; 

Lo  this,  0  death,  thy  deadliest  sting ! 

0  grave,  and  this  thy  victory ! 

0  searcher  of  the  secret  heart, 

Who  deign’d  for  sinful  man  to  die ! 

Restore  us  ere  the  spirit  part, 

Nor  give  to  hell  the  victory  ! 


— i — 

SECOND  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

Forth  from  the  dark  and  stormy  sky, 
Lord,  to  Thine  altar’s  shade  we  fly ; 
Forth  from  the  world,  its  hope  and  fear, 
Saviour,  we  seek  Thy  shelter  here : 


HYMNS. 


209 


Weary  and  weak,  Thy  grace  we  pray: 
Turn  not,  0  Lord  !  Thy  guests  away  ! 
Long  have  we  roam’d  in  want  and  pain, 
Long  have  we  sought  Thy  rest  in  vain ; 
Wilder’d  in  doubt,  in  darkness  lost, 
Long  have  our  souls  been  tempest-tost : 
Low  at  Thy  feet  our  sins  we  lay ; 

Turn  not,  0  Lord !  Thy  guests  away ! 


«  ■ 

THIRD  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

There  was  joy  in  Heaven  ! 

There  was  joy  in  Heaven  ! 

When  this  goodly  world  to  frame 
The  Lord  of  might  and  mercy  came: 
Shouts  of  joy  were  heard  on  high, 
And  the  stars  sang  from  the  sky — 

“  Glory  to  God  in  Heaven !” 

There  was  joy  in  Heaven  ! 

There  was  joy  in  Heaven  ! 

When  the  billows,  heaving  dark, 
Sank  around  the  stranded  ark, 

And  the  rainbow’s  watery  span 
Spake  of  mercy,  hope  to  man, 

And  peace  with  God  in  Heaven  ! 

There  was  joy  in  Heaven ! 

There  was  joy  in  Heaven ! 

18* 


210 


HEBER’S  TOETICAL  WORKS. 


‘ 


When  of  love  the  midnight  beam 
Dawn’d  on  the  towers  of  Bethlehem ; 
And  along  the  echoing  hill 
Angels  sang — “  On  earth  good  will, 
And  glory  in  the  Heaven  !” 

There  is  joy  in  Heaven  ! 

There  is  joy  in  Heaven  ! 

When  the  sheep  that  went  astray 
Turns  again  to  virtue’s  way ; 

When  the  soul,  by  grace  subdued, 
Sobs  its  prayer  of  gratitude, 

Then  is  there  joy  in  Heaven ! 

— ♦ — 

FOURTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 


I  praised  the  earth,  in  beauty  seen 
With  garlands  gay  of  various  green  ; 

I  praised  the  sea,  whose  ample  field 
Shone  glorious  as  a  silver  shield ; 

And  earth  and  ocean  seem’d  to  say, 

“  Our  beauties  are  but  for  a  day !” 

I  praised  the  sun,  whose  chariot  roll’d 
On  wheels  of  amber  and  of  gold ; 

I  praised  the  moon,  whose  softer  eye 
Gleam’d  sweetly  through  the  summer  sky 
And  moon  and  sun  in  answer  said, 

“  Qur  days  of  light  are  numbered  !” 


] 


HYMNS. 


211 


0  God  !  0  Good  beyond  compare  ! 

If  thus  Thy  meaner  works  are  fair ! 

If  thus  Thy  bounties  gild  the  span 
Of  ruin’d  earth  and  sinful  man, 

How  glorious  must  the  mansion  be 
Where  Thy  redeem’d  shall  dwell  with  Thee! 


FIFTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

Creator  of  the  rolling  flood  ! 

On  whom  thy  people  hope  alone ; 

Who  cams’t  by  water  and  by  blood, 

For  man’s  offences  to  atone : 

Who  from  the  labours  of  the  deep 
Didst  set  Thy  servant  Peter  free, 

To  feed  on  earth  Thy  chosen  sheep, 
And  build  an  endless  church  to  Thee. 

Grant  us,  devoid  of  worldly  care, 

And  leaning  on  Thy  bounteous  hand, 

To  seek  Thy  help  in  humble  prayer, 
And  on  Thy  sacred  rock  to  stand : 

And  when,  our  livelong  toil  to  crown, 
Thy  call  shall  set  the  spirit  free, 

To  cast  with  joy  our  burthen  down, 

And  rise,  0  Lord  !  and  follow  Thee ! 


212 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


k 


SEVENTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

When  spring  unlocks  the  flowers  to  paint  the  laughing  soil  ; 
When  summer’s  balmy  showers  refresh  the  mower’s  toil ; 
When  winter  binds  in  frosty  chains  the  fallow  and  the  flood, 
In  God  the  earth  rejoiceth  still,  and  owns  his  Maker  good. 

The  birds  that  wake  the  morning,  and  those  that  love  the 
shade ; 

The  winds  that  sweep  the  mountain  or  lull  the  drowsy  glade, 
The  sun  that  from  his  amber  bower  rejoiceth  on  his  way, 
The  moon  and  stars,  their  Master’s  name  in  silent  pomp 
display. 

Shall  man,  the  lord  of  nature,  expectant  of  the  sky, 

Shall  man,  alone  unthankful,  his  little  praise  deny  ? 

No,  let  the  year  forsake  his  course,  the  seasons  cease  to  be, 
Thee,  Master,  must  we  always  love,  and,  Saviour,  honour 
Thee. 

The  flowers  of  spring  may  wither,  the  hope  of  summer  fade, 
The  autumn  droop  in  winter,  the  birds  forsake  the  shade ; 
The  winds  be  lull’d — the  sun  and  moon  forget  their  old 
decree, 

But  we  in  nature’s  latest  hour,  0  Lord  !  will  cling  to  Thee. 


L 


* 


HYMNS. 


213 


TENTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

Jerusalem,  Jerusalem!  enthroned  once  on  high, 

Thou  favour’d  home  of  God  on  earth,  thou  Heaven  below 
the  sky ! 

Now  brought  to  bondage  with  thy  sons,  a  curse  and  grief 
to  see, 

Jerusalem,  Jerusalem !  our  tears  shall  flow  for  thee. 

Oh !  hadst  thou  known  thy  day  of  .grace,  and  flock’d 
beneath  the  wing 

Of  Him  who  call’d  thee  lovingly,  thine  own  anointed  King, 

Then  had  the  tribes  of  all  the  world  gone  up  thy  pomp  to 
see, 

And  glory  dwelt  within  thy  gates,  and  all  thy  sons  been 
free. 

“  And  who  art  thou  that  mournest  me  ?”  replied  the  ruin 
gray, 

“  And  fear’st  not  rather  that  thyself  may  prove  a  cast¬ 
away  ? 

I  am  a  dried  and  abject  branch,  my  place  is  given  to  thee ; 

But  woe  to  every  barren  graft  of  thy  wild  olive-tree ! 

“  Our  day  of  grace  is  sunk  in  night,  our  time  of  mercy 
spent, 

For  heavy  was  my  children’s  crime,  and  strange  their 
punishment ; 

Yet  gaze  not  idly  on  our  fall,  but,  sinner,  warned  be, 

Who  spared  not  His  chosen  seed  may  send  His  wrath  on 
thee ! 


214  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

“  Our  day  of  grace  is  sunk  in  night,  thy  noon  is  in  its  prime  ; 
Oh  turn  and  seek  thy  Saviour  s  face  in  this  accepted  time  . 
So,  Gentile,  may  Jerusalem  a  lesson  prove  to  thee, 

And  in  the  new  Jerusalem  thy  home  for  ever  be !” 


♦ 


THIRTEENTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

“  Who  yonder  on  the  desert  heath, 
Complains  in  feeble  tone?” 

— u  A  pilgrim  in  the  vale  of  death, 

Faint,  bleeding,  and  alone  !” 

“  How  cam’st  thou  to  this  dismal  strand 
Of  danger,  grief,  and  shame?” 

— u  From  blessed  Sion’s  holy  land, 

By  Folly  led,  I  came !” 

“  What  ruffian  hand  hath  stript  thee  bare  ? 
Whose  fury  laid  thee  low  ?” 

_ “  Sin  for  my  footsteps  twined  her  snare, 

And  Death  has  dealt  the  blow  !” 

“  Can  art  no  medicine  for  thy  wound, 

Nor  nature  strength  supply  ?” 

— a  They  saw  me  bleeding  on  the  ground, 
And  pass’d  in  silence  by  !” 

“  But,  sufferer  !  is  no  comfort  near, 

Thy  terrors  to  remove?” 


HYMNS. 


216 


“  There  is  to  whom  my  soul  was  dear, 

But  I  have  scorn’d  His  love.” 

“  What  if  His  hand  were  nigh  to  save 
From  endless  death  thy  days  ?” 

— “  The  soul  He  ransom’d  from  the  grave 
Should  live  but  to  His  praise!” 

“  Rise  then,  oh  rise  !  His  health  embrace, 
With  heavenly  strength  renew’d  ; 

And,  such  as  is  thy  Saviour’s  grace, 

Such  be  thy  gratitude!” 

— » — 

FIFTEENTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

Lo  the  lilies  of  the  field, 

How  their  leaves  instruction  yield  ! 
Hark  to  Nature’s  lesson  given 
By  the  blessed  birds  of  Heaven ! 

Every  bush  and  tufted  tree 
Warbles  sweet  philosophy : 

“  Mortal,  fly  from  doubt  and  sorrow ; 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow  ! 

“  Say,  with  richer  crimson  glows 
The  kingly  mantle  than  the  rose  ? 

Say,  have  kings  more  wholesome  fare 
Than  we,  poor  citizens  of  air  ? 

Barns  nor  hoarded  grain  have  we, 

Yet  we  carol  merrily. 


216 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Mortal,  fly  from  doubt  and  sorrow  ! 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow ! 

“  One  there  lives  whose  guardian  eye 
Guides  our  humble  destiny  ; 

One  there  lives  who,  Lord  of  all, 
Keeps  our  feathers  lest  they  fall : 

Pass  we  blithely  then  the  time, 
Pearless  of  the  snare  and  lime, 

Free  from  doubt  and  faithless  sorrow: 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow  !” 


SIXTEENTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

Wake!  not,  oh  mother!  sounds  of  lamentation  ! 

Weep  not,  oh  widow  !  weep  not  hopelessly  ! 

Strong  is  His  arm,  the  Bringer  of  Salvation, 

Strong  is  the  Word  of  God  to  succour  thee ! 

Bear  forth  the  cold  corpse,  slowly,  slowly  bear  him : 

Hide  his  pale  features  with  the  sable  pall : 

Chide  not  the  sad  one  wildly  weeping  near  him : 
Widow’d  and  childless,  she  has  lost  her  all ! 

Why  pause  the  mourners  ?  Who  forbids  our  weeping 
Who  the  dark  pomp  of  sorrow  has  delay’d  ? 

“  Set  down  the  bier, — he  is  not  dead  but  sleeping ! 
Young  man,  arise;”— He  spake  and  was  obey’d! 


HYMNS. 


217 


Change  then,  oh  sad  one  !  grief  to  exultation  . 

Worship  and  fall  before  Messiah  s  knee. . 

Strong  was  His  arm,  the  Bringer  of  Salvation ! 

Strong  was  the  Word  of  God  to  succour  thee ! 

— • — 

NINETEENTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

Oh  blest  were  the  accents  of  early  creation, 

When  the  Word  of  Jehovah  came  down  from  above ; 

In  the  clods  of  the  earth  to  infuse  animation, 

And  wake  their  cold  atoms  to  life  and  to  love ! 

And  mighty  the  tones  which  the  firmament  rended, 

When  on  wheels  of  the  thunder,  and  wings  of  the  wind, 

By  lightning,  and  hail,  and  thick  darkness  attended, 

He  utter’d  on  Sinai  His  laws  to  mankind. 

And  sweet  was  the  voice  of  the  First-born  of  Heaven, 
(Though  poor  His  apparel,  though  earthly  His  form,) 

Who  said  to  the  mourner,  “Thy  sins  are  forgiven  !” 

“  Be  whole !”  to  the  sick,— and  «  Be  still !”  to  the  storm. 

Oh  Judge  of  the  world !  when,  arrayed  in  Thy  glory, 

Thy  summons  again  shall  be  heard  from  on  high, 

While  nature  stands  trembling  and  naked  before  Thee, 
And  waits  on  Thy  sentence  to  live  or  to  die , 

When  the  Heaven  shall  fly  fast  from  the  sound  of  Thy 

thunder,  .  •  , 

And  the  sun,  in  Thy  lightnings,  grow  languid  and  pale, 

19 


218 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  the  sea  yield  her  dead,  and  the  Tomb  cleave  asunder 
In  the  hour  of  Thy  terrors,  let  mercy  prevail ! 


TWENTY-FIRST  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

The  sound  of  war  !  In  earth  and  air 
The  volleying  thunders  roll : 

Their  fiery  darts  the  fiends  prepare, 

And  dig  the  pit,  and  spread  the  snare, 
Against  the  Christian’s  soul. 

The  tyrant’s  sword,  the  rack,  the  flame, 
The  scorner’s  serpent  tone, 

Of  bitter  doubt  the  barbed  aim, 

All,  all  conspire  his  heart  to  tame : 

Force,  fraud,  and  hellish  fires  assail 
The  rivets  of  his  heavenly  mail, 

Amidst  his  foes  alone. 

Gods  of  the  world  !  ye  warrior  host 
Of  darkness  and  of  air, 

In  vain  is  all  your  impious  boast, 

In  vain  each  missile  lightning  tost, 

In  vain  the  tempter’s  snare  ! 

Though  fast  and  far  your  arrows  fly, 
Though  mortal  nerve  and  bone 
Shrink  in  convulsive  agony, 

The  Christian  can  your  rage  defy: 

Towers  o’er  his  head  Salvation’s  crest, 
Faith  like  a  buckler  guards  his  breast, 
Undaunted,  though  alone. 


HYMNS. 


210 


’Tis  past !  ’tis  o’er  !  in  foul  defeat 
The  Demon  host  are  fled  ! 

Before  the  Saviour’s  mercy-seat, 

(His  live-long  work  of  faith  complete,) 

Their  conqueror  bends  his  head. 

“  The  spoils  Thyself  hast  gained,  Lord  ! 

I  lay  before  Thy  throne : 

Thou  wert  my  rock,  my  shield,  my  sword ; 

My  trust  was  in  Thy  name  and  word : 

’Twas  in  Thy  strength  my  heart  was  strong  ; 

Thy  Spirit  went  with  mine  along ; 

How  was  I  then  alone  ?” 

— • — 

TWENTY-SECOND  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

Oh  God  !  my  sins  are  manifold,  against  my  life  they  cry, 
And  all  my  guilty  deeds  foregone,  up  to  Thy  temple  fly ; 
Wilt  Thou  release  my  trembling  soul  that  to  despair  is 
driven  ? 

11  Forgive !”  a  blessed  voice  replied,  and  thou  shalt  be 
forgiven !” 

My  foemen,  Lord  !  are  fierce  and  fell,  they  spurn  me  in 
their  pride, 

They  render  evil  for  my  good,  my  patience  they  deride ; 
Arise,  oh  King,  and  be  the  proud  to  righteous  ruin  driven  ! 
“  Forgive  I”  an  awful  answer  came,  “  as  thou  wouldst  be 
forgiven !” 


220  *  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Seven  times,  0  Lord !  I  pardon’d  them,  seven  times  the^ 
sinn’d  again: 

They  practise  still  to  work  me  woe,  they  triumph  in  my 
pain : 

But  let  them  dread  my  vengeance  now,  to  just  resentment 
driven  ! 

“Forgive!”  the  voice  of  thunder  spake,  “or  never  be 
forgiven !” 


TWENTY-THIRD  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

From  foes  that  would  the  land  devour ; 
From  guilty  pride,  and  lust  of  power; 
From  wild  sedition’s  lawless  hour ; 

From  yoke  of  slavery: 

From  blinded  zeal  by  faction  led ; 

From  giddy  change  by  fancy  bred ; 

From  poisonous  error’s  serpent  head, 
Good  Lord,  preserve  us  free ! 

Defend,  0  God  !  with  guardian  hand, 

The  laws  and  ruler  of  our  land, 

And  grant  our  church  Thy  grace  to  stand 
In  faith  and  unity ! 

The  Spirit’s  help  of  Thee  we  crave, 

That  Thou,  whose  blood  was  shed  to  save, 
Mayst,  at  Thy  second  coming,  have 
A  flock  to  welcome  Thee ! 


HYMNS. 


221 


TWENTY-FOURTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

To  conquer  and  to  save,  the  Son  of  God 
Came  to  His  own  in  great  humility, 

Who  wont  to  ride  on  cherub-win^s  abroad. 

And  round  Him  wrap  the  mantle  of  the  sky. 

The  mountains  bent  their  necks  to  form  His  road ; 

The  clouds  dropt  down  their  fatness  from  on  high  ; 
Beneath  His  feet  the  wild  waves  softly  flow’d, 

And  the  wind  kiss’d  His  garment  tremblingly ! 

N 

The  grave  unbolted  half  his  grisly  door, 

(For  darkness  and  the  deep  had  heard  His  fame, 
Nor  longer  might  their  ancient  rule  endure ;) 

The  mightiest  of  mankind  stood  hush’d  and  tame : 
And,  trooping  on  strong  -wing,  His  angels  came 
To  work ’His  will,  and  kingdom  to  secure: 

No  strength  He  needed  save  His  Father’s  name; 
Babes  were  His  heralds,  and  His  friends  the  poor. 

— • — 

FOR  ST.  JAMES’S  DAY. 

Though  sorrows  rise,  and  dangers  roll 
In  weaves  of  darkness  o’er  my  soul, 

Though  friends  are  false  and  love  decays, 

And  few  and  evil  are  my  days, 

Though  conscience,  fiercest  of  my  foes, 

Swells  with  remember’d  guilt  my  woes, 

19*  - 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  ev’n  in  nature’s  utmost  ill, 

I  love  Thee,  Lord  !  I  love  Thee  still ! 

Though  Sinai’s  curse,  in  thunder  dread, 

Peals  o’er  mine  unprotected  head, 

And  memory  points  with  busy  pain, 

To  grace  and  mercy  given  in  vain, 

Till  nature,  shrinking  in  the  strife, 

Would  fly  to  hell  to  ’scape  from  life, 

Though  every  thought  has  power  to  kill, 

I  love  Thee,  Lord  !  I  love  Thee  still ! 

Oh,  by  the  pangs  Thyself  hast  borne, 

The  ruffian’s  blow,  the  tyrant’s  scorn ; 

By  Sinai’s  curse,  whose  dreadful  doom 
Was  buried  in  Thy  guiltless  tomb : 

By  these  my  pangs,  whose  healing  smart 
Thy  grace  hath  planted  in  my  heart ; 

I  know,  I  feel  Thy  bounteous  will  ! 

Thou  lovest  me,  Lord  !  Thou  lovest  me  still ! 


MICHAELMAS  DAY. 

Oh  Captain  of  God’s  host,  whose  dreadful  might 
Led  forth  to  war  the  armed  seraphim, 

And  from  the  starry  height, 

Subdued  in  burning  fight, 

Cast  down  that  ancient  dragon,  dark  and  grim  ! 


■■■I 


wmam 


HYMNS. 

Thine  angels,  Christ !  we  laud  in  solemn  lays, 
Our  elder  brethren  of  the  crystal  sky, 

Who,  ’mid  Thy  glory’s  blaze, 

The  ceaseless  anthem  raise, 

And  gird  Thy  throne  in  faithful  ministry  ! 

We  celebrate  their  love,  whose  viewless  wing 
Hath  left  for  us  so  oft  their  mansion  high, 

The  mercies  of  their  King 
To  mortal  saints  to  bring, 

Or  guard  the  couch  of  slumbering  infancy. 

But  Thee,  the  First  and  Last,  we  glorify, 

Who  when  Thy  word  was  sunk  in  death  and  sin, 
Not  with  Thine  hierarchy, 

The  armies  of  the  sky, 

But  didst  with  Thine  own  arm  the  battle  win. 

Alone  didst  pass  the  dark  and  dismal  shore, 
Alone  didst  tread  the  wine-press,  and  alone, 

All  glorious  in  thy  gore, 

Didst  light  and  life  restore, 

To  us  who  lay  in  darkness  and  undone ! 

Therefore,  with  angels  and  archangels,  we 
To  Thy  dear  love  our  thankful  chorus  raise, 

And  tune  our  songs  to  Thee, 

Who  art,  and  art  to  be, 

And  endless  as  Thy  mercies  sound  Thy  praise ! 


223 


224 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


IN  TIMES  OF  DISTRESS  AND  DANGER. 

Oh  God,  that  madest  earth  and  sky,  the  darkness  and  the 
day, 

Give  ear  to  this  Thy  family,  and  help  us  when  we  pray  ! 
For  wide  the  waves  of  bitterness  around  our  vessel  roar, 
And  heavy  grows  the  pilot’s  heart  to  view  the  rocky  shore ! 

The  cross  our  Master  bore  for  us,  for  Him  we.  fain  would 
bear, 

But  mortal  strength  to  weakness  turns,  and  courage  to 
despair ! 

Then  mercy  on  our  failings,  Lord  !  our  sinking  faith  renew ! 
And  when  Thy  sorrows  visit  us,  oh  send  thy  patience  too ! 

— H - 

BEFORE  A  COLLECTION  MADE  FOR  THE  SOCIETY  FOR 
THE  PROPAGATION  OF  THE  GOSPEL. 

From  Greenland’s  icy  mountains, 

From  India’s  coral  strand, 

Where  Afric’s  sunny  fountains 
Roll  down  their  golden  sand ; 

From  many  an  ancient  river, 

From  many  a  palmy  plain, 

They  call  us  to  deliver 

Their  land  from  error’s  chain ! 

What  though  the  spicy  breezes 
Blow  soft  o’er  Ceylon’s  isle, 


i 


HYMNS. 


226 


Though  every  prospect  pleases, 
And  only  man  is  vile : 

In  vain  with  lavish  kindness 
The  gifts  of  God  are  strown, 
The  heathen  in  his  blindness 
Bows  down  to  wood  and  stone ! 

Can  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 
With  Wisdom  from  on  high, 
Can  we  to  men  benighted 
The  lamp  of  life  deny  ? 
Salvation!  oh,  Salvation! 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim, 

Till  each  remotest  nation 

Has  learn’d  Messiah’s  name  ! 

Waft,  waft,  ye  winds,  his  story, 
And  you,  ye  waters,  roll, 

Till  like  a  sea  of  glory 

It  spreads  from  pole  to  pole! 
Till  o’er  our  ransom’d  nature, 
The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain, 
Redeemer,  King,  Creator, 

In  bliss  returns  to  reign  ! 


226 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


BEFORE  THE  SACRAMENT. 

Bread  of  the  world  in  mercy  broken, 
Wine  of  the  soul  in  mercy  shed ! 

By  whom  the  words  of  life  were  spoken, 
And  in  whose  death  our  sins  are  dead 

Look  on  the  heart  by  sorrow  broken, 
Look  on  the  tears  by  sinners  shed, 
And  be  Thy  feast  to  us  the  token, 

That  by  Thy  grace  our  souls  are  fed ! 


EVENING  HYMN. 

God,  that  madest  Earth  and  Heaven, 
Darkness  and  light ! 

Who  the  day  for  toil  hast  given, 

For  rest  the  night ; 

May  Thine  Angel  guards  defend  us, 
Slumber  sweet  Thy  mercy  send  us, 
Holy  dreams  and  hopes  attend  us, 
This  livelong  night ! 


HYMNS. 


AT  A  FUNERAL. 

Beneath  our  feet  and  o’er  our  head 
Is  equal  warning  given  ; 

Beneath  us  lie  the  countless  dead, 
Above  us  is  the  Heaven ! 

Their  names  are  graven  on  the  stone, 
Their  bones  are  in  the  claj ; 

And  ere  another  day  is  gone, 

Ourselves  may  be  as  they. 

Death  rides  on  every  passing  breeze, 
He  lurks  in  every  flower : 

Each  season  has  its  own  disease, 

Its  peril  every  hour  ! 

Our  eyes  have  seen  the  rosy  light 
Of  youth’s  soft  cheek  decay, 

And  Fate  descend  in  sudden  night 
On  manhood’s  middle  day. 

Our  eyes  have  seen  the  steps  of  age 
Halt  feebly  towards  the  tomb, 

And  yet  shall  earth  our  hearts  engage, 
And  dreams  of  days  to  come  ? 

Turn,  mortal,  turn  !  thy  danger  know ; 
Where’er  thy  foot  can  tread, 

The  earth  rings  hollow  from  below, 
And  warns  thee  of  her  dead ! 


228 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Turn,  Christian,  turn !  thy  soul  apply 
To  truths  divinely  given ; 

The  bones  that  underneath  thee  lie 
Shall  live  for  Hell  or  Heaven ! 


AN  INTROIT,  TO  BE  SUNG  BETWEEN  THE  LITANY  AND 

COMMUNION  SERVICE. 

Oh  most  merciful ! 

Oh  most  bountiful ! 

God  the  Father  Almighty! 

By  the  Redeemer’s 

Sweet  intercession 

Hear  us,  help  us  when  we  cry ! 


AT  A  FUNERAL. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave !  but  we  will  not  deplore  thee, 
Though  sorrows  and  darkness  encompass  the  tomb: 

Thy  Saviour  has  pass’d  through  its  portal  before  thee, 

And  the  lamp  of  His  love  is  thy  guide  through  the  gloom ! 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave !  we  no  longer  behold  thee, 
Nor  tread  the  rough  path  of  the  world  by  thy  side ; 

But  the  wide  arms  of  Mercy  are  spread  to  enfold  thee, 
And  sinners  may  die,  for  the  sinless  has  died ! 


HYMNS. 


229 


■ 


Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave!  and,  its  mansion  forsaking, 
Perchance  thy  weak  spirit  in  fear  linger’d  long ; 

But  the  mild  rays  of  Paradise  beam’d  on  thy  waking,  . 
And  the  sound  which  thou  heardst  was  the  Seraphim’s 
song ! 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  !  but  we  will  not  deplore  thee, 

,  Whose  God  was  thy  ransom,  thy  guardian  and  guide : 

He  gave  thee,  He  took  thee,  and  He  will  restore  thee ; 
And  death  has  no  sting,  for  the  Saviour  has  died ! 

— • — 

ON  RECOVERY  FROM  SICKNESS. 

Oh  Saviour  of  the  faithful  dead, 

With  whom  Thy  servants  dwell, 

Though  cold  and  green  the  turf  is  spread 
Above  their  narrow  cell, — 

No  more  we  cling  to  mortal  clay, 

We  doubt  and  fear  no  more, 

Nor  shrink  to  tread  the  darksome  way 
Which  Thou  hast  trod  before  ! 

’Twas  hard  from  those  I  loved  to  go, 

Who  knelt  around  my  bed, 

Whose  tears  bedew’d  my  burning  brow, 

Whose  arms  upheld  my  head ! 

As  fading  from  my  dizzy  view, 

I  sought  their  forms  in  vain, 

20 


4 


t 


230  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

The  bitterness  of  death  I  knew, 

And  groan’d  to  live  again. 

’Twas  dreadful  when  th’  Accuser’s  power 
Assail’d  my  sinking  heart, 

Recounting  every  wasted  hour, 

And  each  unworthy  part ; 

But,  Jesus !  in  that  mortal  fray, 

Thy  blessed  comfort  stole, 

Like  sunshine  in  a  stormy  day, 

Across  my  darken’d  soul ! 

When,  soon  or  late,  this  feeble  breath 
No  more  to  Thee  shall  pray, 

Support  me  through  the  vale  of  death, 
And  in  the  darksome  way ! 

When  cloth’d  in  fleshly  weeds  again 
I  wait  thy  dread  decree, 

Judge  of  the  world !  bethink  Thee  then 
That  thou  hast  died  for  me. 


SONGS. 


SONG  TO  A  SCOTCH  AIR. 

I  love  the  harp  with  silver  sound, 

That  rings  the  festal  hall  around ; 

But  sweetest  of  all 
The  strains  which  fall, 

When  twilight  mirth  with  song  is  crown’d, 

I  love  the  bugle’s  warbling  swell, 

When  echo  answers  from  her  cell ; 

But  sweeter  to  me, 

When  I  list  to  thee , 

Who  wak’st  the  northern  lay  so  well. 


THE  RISING  OF  THE  SUN. 

TO  A  WELSH  AIR. 

Wake  !  wake  !  wake  to  the  hunting  ! 
Wake  ye,  wake  !  the  morning  is  nigh  ! 
Chilly  the  breezes  blow 
Up  from  the  sea  below, 


(231) 


232 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Chilly  the  twilight  creeps  over  the  sky ! 

Mark  how  fast  the  stars  are  fading ! 

Mark  how  wide  the  dawn  is  spreading ! 

Many  a  fallow  deer 
Feeds  in  the  forest  near; 

Many  a  gallant  wolf  waits  for  the  hunter’s  spear  ; 
Now  is  no  time  on  the  heather  to  lie ! 

Rise,  rise !  look  on  the  ocean  ! 

Rise  ye,  rise,  and  look  on  the  sky ! 

Softly  the  vapours  sweep 
Over  the  level  deep, 

Softly  the  mists  on  the  waterfall  lie  ! 

In  the  cloud  red  tints  are  glowing, 

On  the  hill  the  black  cock’s  crowing ; 

And  through  the  welkin  red, 

See  where  he  lifts  his  head, 

King  of  the  morning,  aroused  from  his  purple  bed ! 
Forth  to  the  hunting!  The  sun’s  riding  high! 


IMITATION  OF  A  SONG. 

BAID  TO  HAVE  BEEN  COMPOSED  BY  ROBERT  DUKE  OP  NORMANDY,  DURING  HIS 
CONFINEMENT  IN  CARDIFF  CASTLE,  ADDRESSED  TO  AN  OAK  WHICH  GREW 
IN  AN  ANCIENT  ENCAMPMENT  WITHIN  SIGHT  OF  HIS  WINDOWS. 
WRITTEN  WHEN  15  YEARS  OLD. 

Oak,  that  stately  and  alone 
On  the  war-worn  mound  has  grown, 

The  blood  of  man  thy  sapling  fed, 

And  dyed  thy  tender  root  in  red ; 


SONGS 


233 


Woe  to  the  feast  where  foes  combine, 

Woe  to  the  strife  of  words  and  wine ! 

Oak,  thou  hast  sprung  for  many  a  year, 
’Mid  whispering  rye-grass  tall  and  sear, 

The  coarse  rank  herb,  which  seems  to  show 
That  bones  unblest  are  laid  below ; 

Woe  to  the  sword  that  hates  its  sheath, 

Woe  to  th’  unholy  trade  of  death  ! 

Oak,  from  the  mountain’s  airy  brow 
Thou  view’st  the  subject  wToods  below, 

And  merchants  hail  the  well-known  tree, 
Returning  o’er  the  Severn  sea. 

Woe,  woe  to  him  whose  birth  is  high, 

For  peril  waits  on  royalty  ! 

Now  storms  have  bent  thee  to  the  ground, 
And  envious  ivy  clips  thee  round ; 

And  shepherd  hinds  in  wanton  play 
Have  stripp’d  thy  needful  bark  away ; 

Woe  to  the  man  whose  foes  are  strong, 

Thrice  woe  to  him  who  lives  too  long ! 


SONG  TO  A  WELSH  AIR. 

The  moon  in  silent  brightness 
Rides  o’er  the  mountain  brow, 
The  mist  in  fleecy  whiteness 
Has  clad  the  vale  below ; 

20* 


■ 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Above  the  woodbine  bow’r 
Dark  waves  our  trysting-tree  ; 

It  is,  it  is  the  hour, 

Oh  come,  my  love,  to  me ! 

The  dews  of  night  have  wet  me, 
While  wand’ring  lonelily ; 

Thy  father’s  bands  beset  me — 

I  only  fear’d  for  thee. 

I  crept  beneath  thy  tower, 

I  climb’d  the  ivy  tree ; 

And  blessed  be  the  hour 
That  brings  my  love  to  me. 

I  left  my  chosen  numbers 
In  yonder  copse  below ; 

Each  warrior  lightly  slumbers, 
His  hand  upon  his  bow : 

From  forth  a  tyrant’s  power 
They  wait  to  set  thee  free ; 

It  is,  it  is  the  hour, — 

Oh  come,  my  love,  to  me ! 


— » — 

SONG  TO  A  WELSH  AIR. 

I  mourn  not  the  forest  whose  verdure  is  dying ; 

I  mourn  not  the  summer  whose  beauty  is  o’er 
I  weep  for  the  hopes  that  for  ever  are  flying ; 

I  sigh  for  the  worth  that  I  slighted  before ; 


SONGS. 


235 


And  sigh  to  bethink  me  how  vain  is  my  sighing, 


For  love  once  extinguish’d,  is  kindled  no  more. 

le  spring  may  return  with  his  garland  of  flowers, 
And  wake  to  new  rapture  the  bird  on  the  tree ; 
le  summer  smile  soft  through  his  crystalline  showe 
The  blessings  of  autumn  wave  brown  o’er  the  lea: 
le  rock  may  be  shaken,  the  dead  may  awaken, 

But  the  friend  of  my  bosom  returns  not  to  me. 


CAROL  FOR  MAY-DAY 

Queen  of  fresh  flowers, 

Whom  vernal  stars  obey, 

Bring  thy  warm  showers, 

Bring  thy  genial  ray. 

In  nature’s  greenest  livery  drest, 

Descend  on  earth’s  expectant  breast, 
To  earth  and  Heaven  a  welcome  guest, 
Thou  merry  month  of  May  ! 

Mark  how  we  meet  thee 
At  dawn  of  dewy  day  ! 

Hark  !  how  we  greet  thee 
With  our  roundelay ! 

While  all  the  good  things  that  be 
In  earth,  and  air,  and  ample  sea, 

Are  waking  up  to  welcome  thee, 

Thou  merry  month  of  May ! 


236 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Flocks  on  the  mountains, 

And  birds  upon  their  spray, 

Tree,  turf,  and  fountains, 

All  hold  holiday ; 

And  love,  the  life  of  living  things. 

Love  waves  his  torch,  love  claps  his  wings, 
And  loud  and  wide  thy  praises  sings, 

Thou  merry  month  of  May ! 


TO - . 

When  I  was  sick,  how  patiently  thou  sat’st  beside  my  bed ; 

When  I  was  faint,  how  lovingly  thine  arm  upheld  my  head  ; 

When  I  was  wearied  out  with  pain,  perverse  in  misery, 

How  ready  was  thy  watchful  aid  my  wishes  to  supply ! 

And  thou  art  sick,  and  thou  art  weak,  and  thou  art  rack’d 
with  pain, 

But  cheerful  still,  untamed  of  ill,  does  yet  thy  heart 
remain : 

And  have  I  nursed  and  tended  thee  since  first  thy  griefs 
began  ? 

Forgive,  forgive,  my - ,  the  selfishness  of  man  ! 


SONGS. 


PARODY  OF  LISTON’S  “BEAUTIFUL  MAID.” 

My  fishmonger  told  me  that  soles  were  most  dear : 

I  trembled  to  hear  what  he  said, 

For  salmon  and  shrimps  ’twas  the  wrong  time  of  year, 
So  I  pitch’d  on  a  Beautiful  Maid. 

I  brought  home  my  beautiful  maid, 

“  Here,  cook,  dress  this  beautiful  maid ! 

Come  boil  it,  don’t  spoil  it,  but  see  it  well  done, 

And  I’ll  dine  on  my  beautiful  maid  !” 

But  an  ugly  black  cat — I  speak  it  with  grief, 

My  delicate  tit-bit  waylaid, 

The  cook  turn’d  her  back,  and  the  long-whisker’d  thief 
Ran  away  with  my  beautiful  maid ! 

She  claw’d  up  my  beautiful  maid ! 

She  eloped  with  my  beautiful  maid ! 

Oh  pussy — you  hussy,  oh  what  have  you  done, 

You’ve  eat  up  my  beautiful  maid ! 


BOW-MEETING  SONG. 

Merry  archers,  come  with  me ! 
Come  with  me,  come  with  me ; 
Merry  archers  come  with  me, 

To  our  tent  beside  the  holly ! 
Summer  gilds  the  smiling  day, 
Summer  clothes  the  tufted  spray, 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Earth  is  green  and  Heaven  is  gay, 
Wherefore  should  we  not  be  jolly  ! 

Merry  archers,  come,  &c. 

Here  is  friendship,  mirth  is  here, 
Woodland  music,  woodland  cheer, 

And,  with  hope  and  blended  fear, 

Here  is  love’s  delightful  folly. 

Our  life,  alas !  is  fraught  with  care, 
And  mortals  all  must  have  their  share, 
But  yet  to-day  we  well  may  spare 
From  our  load  of  melancholy. 

Merry  archers,  come  with  me ! 
Come  with  me,  come  with  me ; 
Merry  archers,  come  with  me, 

To  our  tents  beside  the  holly ! 


BOW-MEETING  SONG. 

Ye  spirits  of  our  Fathers, 

The  hardy,  bold,  and  free, 

Who  chased  o’er  Cressy’s  gory  field 
A  fourfold  enemy ! 

From  us  who  love  your  sylvan  game, 
To  you  the  song  shall  flow, 

To  the  fame  of  your  name 
Who  so  bravely  bent  the  bow. 


SONGS 


J 


*Twas  merry  then  in  England, 

(Our  ancient  records  tell,) 

With  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John 
Who  dwelt  by  down  and  dell ; 

And  yet  we  love  the  bold  outlaw 
Who  braved  a  tyrant  foe, 

Whose  cheer  was  the  deer, 

And  his  only  friend  the  bow! 

’Twas  merry  then  in  England 
In  autumn’s  dewy  morn, 

When  echo  started  from  her  hill 
To  hear  the  bugle-horn. 

And  beauty,  mirth,  and  warrior  worth 
In  garb  of  green  did  go 
The  shade  to  invade 

With  the  arrow  and  the  how. 

Ye  spirits  of  our  Fathers! 

Extend  to  us  your  care, 

Among  your  children  yet  are  found 
The  valiant  and  the  fair ! 

*Twas  merry  yet  in  Old  England, 

Full  well  her  archers  know; 

And  shame  on  their  name 
Who  despise  the  British  bow ! 


240 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


BOW-MEETING  SONG. 

By  yon  castle  wall,  ’mid  the  breezes  of  morning, 

The  genius  of  Cambria  stray’d  pensive  and  slow ; 

The  oak-wreath  was  wither’d  her  tresses  adorning, 

And  the  wind  through  its  leaves  sigh’d  its  murmur  of  woe. 
She  gazed  on  her  mountains  with  filial  devotion, 

She  gazed  on  her  Dee  as  he  roll’d  to  the  ocean, 

And  “  Cambria  !  poor  Cambria  !”  she  cried  with  emotion, 
“  Thou  yet  hast  thy  country,  thy  harp,  and  thy  bow ! 

“  Sweep  on,  thou  proud  stream,  with  thy  billows  all  hoary ; 

As  proudly  my  -warriors  have  rush’d  on  the  foe : 

But  feeble  and  faint  is  the  sound  of  their  glory, 

For  time,  like  thy  tide,  has  its  ebb  and  its  flow. 

Ev’n  now,  while  I  watch  thee,  thy  beauties  are  fading ; 
The  sands  and  the  shallows  thy  course  are  invading ; 
Where  the  sail  swept  the  surges  the  sea-bird  is  wading; 
And  thus  hath  it  fared  with  the  land  of  the  bow ! 

4 

“  Smile,  smile,  ye  dear  hills,  ’mid  your  woods  and  your 
flowers, 

Whose  heather  lies  dark  in  the  moon’s  dewy  glow  l 
A  time  must  await  you  of  tempest  and  showers, 

An  autumn  of  mist,  and  a  winter  of  snow  ! 

For  me,  though  the  whirlwind  has  shiver’d  and  cleft  me, 
Of  wealth  and  of  empire  the  stranger  bereft  me, 


SONGS. 


241 


Yet  Saxon, — proud  Saxon, — thy  fury  has  left  me, 

Worth,  valour,  and  beauty,  the  harp  and  the  bow ! 

“  Ye  towers,  on  whose  rampire,  all  ruin’d  and  riven, 

The  wallflower  and  woodbine  so  lavishly  blow ; 

I  have  seen  when  your  banner  waved  broad  to  the  Heaven, 
And  kings  found  your  faith  a  defence  from  the  foe ; 

Oh  loyal  in  grief,  and  in  danger  unshaken, 

For  ages  still  true,  though  for  ages  forsaken, 

Yet,  Cambria,  thy  heart  may  to  gladness  awaken, 

Since  thy  monarch  has  smiled  on  the  harp  and  the  bow !” 


— • — 

BOW-MEETING  SONG. 

We  find  it  well  observed  by  an  ancient  learned  Rabbin, 
The  man  was  raving  mad  who  first  to  sea  would  go, 

Who  would  change  the  tented  field  for  the  quarter-deck 
and  cabin, 

And  the  songs  of  blooming  beauty  for  a  Yo!  heave  oh ! 
Yet  since  your  bard  is  bent  to  try 
The  fervours  of  an  Eastern  sky, 

And  where,  across  the  tepid  main,  Arabian  breezes  blow, 
While  yet  the  northern  gale 
Fans  his  cheek  and  swells  his  sail, 

Accept  his  latest  tribute  to  the  British  bow ! 

Dear  scenes  of  unrepented  joy,  our  nature’s  best  physiciar 
Can  all  Golconda’s  glittering  mines  so  pure  a  bliss  bestow 
21 


•-^5  v# 


242 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Oh  deem  not  that  for  sordid  gold  he  left  you,  or  ambition, 
Or  shall  e’er  forget  your  peaceful  charms  ’mid  India’s 
brightest  glow  ! 

Oft,  oft,  will  he  be  telling 
Of  the  glades  of  Nant-y-bellin, 

Of  the  lilies  and  the  roses  that  in  Gwersylt  blow, 

Oft,  oft,  recall  the  snow-white  wall  of  yonder  ancient 
dwelling, 

Whose  lords,  in  Saxon  Edwin’s  days,  so  nobly  bent  the 
bow ! 

Oh  when  the  dog-star  rides  on  high,  how  oft  shall  memory 
wander 

Where  yonder  oaks  their  aged  arms  ’mid  blended  poplars 
throw ; 

And  hollies  join  their  glossy  shade,  and  the  brook  with  cool 
meander 

Steals  like  a  silver  snake  thro’  the  copse  below ! 

Where  many  a  mild  and  matron  grace 
Adorn  the  mother’s  gentle  face, 

And  *  *  *  *  in  beauteous  garland  blow, 

And  proved  in  many  a  martial  fray 
Their  sire  holds,  sylvan  holiday, 

And  flings  his  well-worn  sword  away 
To  bend  the  British  bow ! 

The  bard  is  gone,  and  other  bards  shall  wake  the  call  of 
pleasure 

That  prompts  to  beauty’s  lip  the  smile,  and  lends  her 
cheek  its- glow, 

And  strike  the  sylvan  lyre  to  a  louder,  livelier  measure-, 
And  wear  the  oaken  wreath,  which  he  must  now  forego ' 


I 


SONGS.  243 

But  yet,  though  many  a  sweeter  song 
Shall  float  th’  applauding  tent  along, 

And  many  a  friendly  health  to  the  Sons  of  Genius  flow, 
Forget  not  them ,  who,  doom’d  to  part, 

Will  keep  engraven  on  their  heart 
The  sons  and  the  daughters  of  the  British  bow ! 

— *— 

BALLAD. 

i.  . 

“  Oh,  captain  of  the  Moorish  hold, 

Unbar  thy  gates  to  me, 

And  I  will  give  thee  gems  and  gold, 

To  set  Fernando  free. 

For  I  a  sacred  oath  have  plight 
A  pilgrim  to  remain, 

Till  I  return  with  Lara’s  knight, 

The  noblest  knight  of  Spain.” 

n. 

“Fond  Christian  youth,”  the  captain  said, 

“  Thy  suit  is  soon  denied  : 

Fernando  loves  a  Moorish  maid, 

And  will  with  us  abide. 

Renounced  is  every  Christian  rite, 

The  turban  he  hath  ta’en, 

And  Lara  thus  hath  lost  her  knight, 

The  boldest  knight  of  Spain.” 


244 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


♦ 


/ 


III. 

Pale,  marble  pale,  the  pilgrim  turn’d, 

A  cold  and  deadly  dye; 

Then  in  his  cheeks  the  blushes  burn’d, 
And  anger  in  his  eye. 

(From  forth  his  cowl  a  ringlet  bright 
Fell  down  of  golden  grain,) 

“  Base  Moor  !  to  slander  Lara’s  knight, 
The  boldest  knight  of  Spain  ! 

IV. 

“  Go  look  on  Lugo’s  gory  field! 

Go  look  on  Tayo’s  tide ! 

Can  ye  forget  the  red-cross  shield, 

That  all  your  host  defied  ? 

Alhama’s  warriors  turn’d  to  flight, 
Granada’s  sultan  slain, 

Attest  the  worth  of  Lara’s  knight, 

The  boldest  knight  of  Spain  !” 

V. 

“By  Allah,  yea!”  with  eyes  of  fire 
The  lordly  paynim  said, 

“  Granada’s  sultan  was  my  sire, 

Who  fell  by  Lara’s  blade ; 

And  tho’  thy  gold  were  fortyfold, 

The  ransom  were  but  vain 

To  purchase  back  thy  Christian  knight, 
The  boldest  knight  of  Spain.” 

VI. 

“  Ah,  Moor  !  the  life  that  once  is  shed 
No  vengeance  can  repay ; 


* 


SONGS. 


245 


And  who  can  number  up  the  dead 
That  fall  in  battle  fray  ? 

Thyself  in  many  a  manly  fight 
Hast  many  a  father  slain  ; 

Then  rage  not  thus  ’gainst  Lara’s  knight, 
The  boldest  knight  of  Spain.” 

VII. 

“  And  who  art  thou,  whose  pilgrim  vest 
Thy  beauties  ill  may  shroud  ; 

The  locks  of  gold,  the  heaving  breast, 

A  moon  beneath  a  cloud  ? — 

Wilt  thou  our  Moorish  creed  recite, 

And  here  with  me  remain  ? 

He  may  depart, — that  captive  knight, 

The  conquer’d  knight  of  Spain.” 

Till. 

“Ah,  speak  not  so !”  with  voice  of  woe, 

The  shuddering  stranger  cried ; 

“  Another  creed  I  may  not  know, 

Nor  live  another’s  bride  ! 

Fernando’s  wife  may  yield  her  life, 

But  not  her  honour  stain, 

To  loose  the  bonds  of  Lara’s  knight, 

The  noblest  knight  of  Spain!” 

IX. 

“  And  know’st  thou,  then,  how  hard  a  doom 
Thy  husband  yet  may  bear ! 

The  fetter’d  limbs,  the  living  tomb, 

The  damp  and  noisome  air  ? 

21  * 


246 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


\ 


In  lonely  cave,  and  void  of  light, 

To  drag  a  helpless  chain, 

Thy  pride  condemns  the  Christian  knight, 
The  prop  and  pride  of  Spain !” 


X. 

“  Oh  that  within  that  dungeon’s  gloom 
His  sorrows  I  might  share, 

And  cheer  him  in  that  living  tomb, 

With  love,  and  hope,  and  prayer ! 

But  still  the  faith  I  once  have  plight 
Unbroken  must  remain, 

And  God  will  help  the  captive  knight, 

And  plead  the  cause  of  Spain !” 

XI. 

u  And  deem’st  thou  from  the  Moorish  hold 
In  safety  to  retire, 

Whose  locks  outshine  Arabia’s  gold, 

Whose  eyes  the  diamond’s  fire  !” 

She  drew  a  poniard  small  and  bright, 

And  spake  in  calm  disdain : 

“  He  taught  me  how,  my  Christian  knight, 
To  guard  the  faith  of  Spain  !” 

XII. 

The  drawbridge  falls  !  with  loud  alarm 
The  clashing  portals  fly  ! 

She  bared  her  breast,  she  raised  her  arm, 
And  knelt,  in  act  to  die ! 


i 


SONGS. 


‘21 1 


But  ah,  the  thrill  of  wild  delight 
That  shot  through  every  vein ! 

He  stood  before  her, — Lara’s  knight, 
The  noblest  knight  of  Spain  ! 


♦ 


LINES 

WRITTEN  TO  A  MARCH  COMPOSED  IN  IMITATION  OP  A  MILITARY  BAND. 

I  see  them  on  their  winding  way, 

Above  their  ranks  the  moon-beams  play, 

And  nearer  yet,  and  yet  more  near, 

The  martial  chorus  strikes  the  ear. 

They’re  lost  and  gone, — the  moon  is  past, 

The  wood’s  dark  shade  is  o’er  them  cast, 

And  fainter,  fainter,  fainter  still, 

The  dim  march  warbles  up  the  hill. 

Again,  again, — the  pealing  drum, 

The  clashing  horn — they  come  !  they  come  ! 
And  lofty  deeds  and  daring  high, 

Blend  with  their  notes  of  victory. 

Forth,  forth,  and  meet  them  on  their  way, 

The  trampling  hoof  brooks  no  delay ; 

The  thrilling  fife,  the  pealing  drum, 

How  late — but  oh,  how  loved  they  come! 


248 


ILEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


TO  A  WELSH  AIR. 

“CODIAD  YR  HYDOD.” 

Why  that  neck  of  marble  whiteness, 
Why  that  hair  of  sunny  brightness, 
Form  of  perfect  mould  ; 

Why  those  fringed  eyelids  screening, 
Lights  of  love  and  liquid  meaning, 
While  the  heart  is  cold  ? 

Shame  on  her  whose  pride  or  malice 
With  a  lover’s  anguish  dallies  ! 

Scorn  our  scatter’d  reason  rallies : 
Thou  shalt  mourn  thy  tyrant  sallies, 
Ere  that  thou  art  old — young  Alice, 
Ere  that  thou  art  old  ! 


THE  GROUND  SWELL. 

How  soft  the  shades  of  evening  creep 
O’er  yonder  dewy  lea, 

Where  balmy  winds  have  lull’d  to  sleep 
The  tenants  of  the  tree. 

No  wandering  breeze  is  here  to  sweep 
In  shadowy  ripple  o’er  the  deep, 

Yet  swells  the  heaving  sea ! 


SONGS. 


How  calm  the  sky !  rest,  ocean,  rest, 
From  storm  and  ruffle  free, 

Calm  as  the  image  on  thy  breast 
Of  her  that  governs  thee ! 

And  yet  beneath  the  moon’s  mild  reign 
Thy  broad  breast  heaves  as  one  in  pain, 
Thou  dark  and  silent  sea. 

There  are  whom  fortune  vainly  wooes 
With  all  her  pageantry, 

Whom  every  flattering  bliss  pursues, 

Yet  still  they  fare  like  thee; 

The  spell  is  laid  within  their  mind, 

Least  wretched  then  when  most  resign’d 
Their  hearts  throb  silently  ! 


t 


TRANSLATIONS,  BTC. 


THE  FIRST  OLYMPIC  ODE. 

TO  HIERO  OP  SYRACUSE,  VICTOR  IN  THE  HORSE-RACE. 

Can  earth,  or  fire,  or  liquid  air, 

With  water’s  sacred  stream  compare  ? 

Can  aught  that  wealthy  tyrants  hold 
Surpass  the  lordly  blaze  of  gold  ? — 

Or  lives  there  one,  whose  restless  eye 
Would  seek  along  the  empty  sky. 

Beneath  the  sun’s  meridian  ray, 

A  warmer  star,  a  purer  day  ? — 

0  thou,  my  soul,  whose  choral  song 
Would  tell  of  contests  sharp  and  strong, 
Extol  not  other  lists  above 
The  circus  of  Olympian  Jove  ; 

Whence,  borne  on  many  a  tuneful  tongue, 
To  Saturn’s  seed  the  anthem  sung, 

With  harp,  and  flute,  and  trumpet’s  call, 
Hath  sped  to  Hiero’s  festival. — 

Over  sheep-clad  Sicily 

Who  the  righteous  sceptre  beareth, 
Every  flower  of  Virtue’s  tree 

Wove  in  various  wreath  he  weareth. — 


252 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  the  bud  of  Poesy 

Is  the  fairest  flower  of  all ; 

Which  the  bards,  with  social  glee, 

Strew  round  Hiero’s  wealthy  hall. — 

The  harp  on  yonder  pin  suspended, 

Seize  it,  boy,  for  Pisa’s  sake ; 

And  that  good  steed’s,  whose  thought  will  wake 
A  joy  with  anxious  fondness  blended; — 

No  sounding  lash  his  sleek  side  rended : — 

By  Alpheus’  brink,  with  feet  of  flame, 
Self-driven  to  the  goal  he  tended  : 

And  earn’d  the  olive  wreath  of  fame 
For  that  dear  lord,  whose  righteous  name 
The  sons  of  Syracusa  tell : — 

Who  loves  the  generous  courser  well : 

Belov’d  himself  by  all  who  dwell 
In  Pelop’s  Lydian  colony. — 

— Of  earth-embracing  Neptune,  he 
The  darling,  when,  in  days  of  yore, 

All  lovely  from  the  cauldron  red 
By  Clotho’s  spell  delivered, 

The  youth  an  ivory  shoulder  bore. — 

— Well ! — these  are  tales  of  mystery  ! — 

And  many  a  darkly  woven  lie 
With  men  will  easy  credence  gain ; 

While  truth,  calm  truth,  may  speak  in  vain 
For  eloquence,  whose  honey’d  sway 
Our  frailer  mortal  wits  obey, 

Can  honour  give  to  actions  ill, 

And  faith  to  deeds  incredible ; — • 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


253 


And  bitter  blame,  and  praises  high, 

Fall  truest  from  posterity. — 

But,  if  we  dare  the  deeds  rehearse 
Of  those  that  aye  endure, 

’Twere  meet  that  in  such  dangerous  verse 
Our  every  word  were  pure. — 

Then,  son  of  Tantalus,  receive 
A  plain  unvarnish’d  lay  ! — 

My  song  shall  elder  fables  leave, 

And  of  thy  parent  say, 

That,  when  in  heaven  a  favour’d  guest, 

He  call’d  the  gods  in  turn  to  feast 
On  Sipylus,  his  mountain  home ; 

The  sovereign  of  the  ocean  foam, 

— Can  mortal  form  such  favour  prove  ? — 
Rapt  thee  on  golden  car  above 
To  highest  house  of  mighty  Jove  ; 

To  which,  in  after  day, 

Came  golden-haired  Ganymede, 

As  bards  in  ancient  story  read, 

The  dark-wing’d  eagle’s  prey. — 

And  when  no  earthly  tongue  could  tell 
The  fate  of  thee,  invisible ; — 

Nor  friends,  who  sought  thee  wide  in  vain, 
To  soothe  the  weeping  mother’s  pain, 

Could  bring  thy  wanderer  home  again ; 

Some  envious  neighbour’s  spleen, 

In  distant  hints,  and  darkly,  said, 

That  in  the  cauldron  hissing  red, 

22 


254  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

And  on  the  gods*  great  table  spread, 

Thy  mangled  limbs  were  seen. — 

But  who  shall  tax,  I  dare  not,  I, 

The  blessed  gods  with  gluttony  ? — 

Full  oft  the  slanderous  tongue  has  felt 
By  their  high  wrath  the  thunder  dealt 
And  sure,  if  ever  mortal  head 
Heaven’s  holy  watchers  honoured, 

That  head  was  Lydia’s  lord. — 

Yet,  could  not  mortal  heart  digest 
The  wonders  of  that  heavenly  feast ; 

Elate  with  pride,  a  thought  unblest 
Above  his  nature  soar’d. — 

And  now  condemn’d  to  endless  dread, — 

(Such  is  the  righteous  doom  of  fate,) 

He  eyes,  above  his  guilty  head, 

The  shadowy  rock’s  impending  weight : — 

The  fourth,  with  that  tormented  three 
In  horrible  society  ! — 

For  that,  in  frantic  theft, 

The  nectar  cup  he  reft, 

And  to  his  mortal  peers  in  feasting  pour’d, 

For  whom  a  sin  it  were 
With  mortal  life  to  share 
The  mystic  dainties  of  th’  immortal  board : 

And  who  by  policy 
Can  hope  to  ’scape  the  eye 
Of  him  who  sits  above  by  men  and  gods  adored  ? — 


* 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


For  such  offence,  a  doom  severe, 

Sent  down  the  son  to  sojourn  here 
Among  the  fleeting  race  of  man ; — 

Who,  when  the  curly  down  began 
To  clothe  his  cheek  in  darker  shade, 

To  car-borne  Pisa’s  royal  maid 
A  lover’s  tender  service  paid. — 

But,  in  the  darkness  first  he  stood 
Alone,  by  ocean’s  hoary  flood, 

And  raised  to  him  the  suppliant  cry, 

The  hoarse  earth-shaking  deity. — 

Nor  call’d  in  vain,  through  cloud  and  storm 
Half-seen,  a  huge  and  shadowy  form, 

The  god  of  waters  came. — 

He  came,  whom  thus  the  youth  address’d— 
“  Oh,  thou,  if  that  immortal  breast 
Have  felt  a  lover’s  flame, 

A  lover’s  prayer  in  pity  hear, 

Repel  the  tyrant’s  brazen  spear 

That  guards  my  lovely  dame ! — 

And  grant  a  car  whose  rolling  speed 
May  help  a  lover  at  his  need ; 

Condemn’d  by  Pisa’s  hand  to  bleed, 

Unless  I  win  the  envied  meed 
In  Elis’  field  of  fame  ! — 

For  youthful  knights  thirteen 
By  him  have  slaughter’d  been, 

His  daughter  vexing  with  perverse  delay — 


n 


256 


HEBER'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Such  to  a  coward’s  eye 
Were  evil  augury  ; — 

Nor  durst  a  coward’s  heart  the  strife  essay ! 
Yet,  since  alike  to  all 
The  doom  of  death  must  fall, 

Ah !  wherefore,  sitting  in  unseemly  shade, 
Wear  out  a  nameless  life, 

Remote  from  noble  strife, 

And  all  the  sweet  applause  to  valour  paid  ? — 
Yes  ! — I  will  dare  the  course  !  but,  thou, 
Immortal  friend,  my  prayer  allow  !” 


Thus  not  in  vain,  his  grief  he  told, — 

The  ruler  of  the  watery  space 
Bestow’d  a  wondrous  car  of  gold, 

And  tireless  steeds  of  winged  pace. — 

So,  victor  in  the  deathful  race, 

He  tamed  the  strength  of  Pisa’s  king, 
And,  from  his  bride  of  beauteous  face, 
Beheld  a  stock  of  warriors  spring, 

Six  valiant  sons,  as  legends  sing. — 

And  now,  with  fame  and  virtue  crown’d, 
Where  Alpheus’  stream,  in  wat’ry  ring, 
Encircles  half  his  turfy  mound, 

He  sleeps  beneath  the  pildd  ground, 

Near  that  blest  spot  where  strangers  move 
In  many  a  long  procession  round 
The  altar  of  protecting  Jove. — 

Yet  chief,  in  yonder  lists  of  fame, 

Survives  the  noble  Pelops’  name ; 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


267 


Where  strength  of  hands  and  nimble  feet 
In  stern  and  dubious  contest  meet ; 

And  high  renown  and  honey'd  praise, 
And  following  length  of  honour’d  days, 
The  victor’s  wear y  toil  repays. — 


But  what  are  past  or  future  joys  ? — 

The  present  is  our  own  ; — 

And  he  is  wise  who  best  employs 
The  passing  hour  alone. — 

To  crown  with  knightly  wreath  the  king 
(A  grateful  task)  be  mine ; — 

And  on  the  smooth  iEolian  string 
To  praise  his  ancient  line ! — 

For  ne’er  shall  wand’ring  minstrel  find 
A  chief  so  just, — a  friend  so  kind  ; 

With  every  grace  of  fortune  blest ; 

The  mightiest,  wisest,  bravest,  best ! — 

God,  who  beholdeth  thee  and  all  thy  deeds, 

Have  thee  in  charge,  king  Hiero ! — so  again 
The  bard  may  sing  thy  horn-hoofed  steeds 

In  frequent  triumph  o’er  the  Olympian  plain ! — 
Nor  shall  the  bard  awake  a  lowly  strain, 

His  wild  notes  flinging  o’er  the  Cronian  steep ; 

Whose  ready  muse,  and  not  invoked  in  vain, 

For  such  high  mark  her  strongest  shaft  shall  keep. — 
Each  hath  his  proper  eminence  ! 

To  kings  indulgent  Providence 
(No  farther  search  the  will  of  Heaven) 

The  glories  of  the  earth  hath  given. — 

22* 


258 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Still  may’st  thou  reign  !  enough  for  me 
To  dwell  with  heroes  like  to  thee, 

Myself  the  chief  of  Grecian  minstrelsy.— 

— i — 

II. 

TO  THERON  OP  AGRAGAS,  VICTOR  IN  THE  CHARIOT  RACE. 

0  SONG !  whose  voice  the  harp  obeys, 
Accordant  aye  with  answering  string; 

What  god,  what  hero  wilt  thou  praise, 

What  man  of  godlike  prowess  sing  ? — 

Lo  !  Jove  himself  is  Pisa’s  king ; 

And  Jove’s  strong  son  the  first  to  raise 
The  barriers  of  the  Olympic  ring. — 

And  now,  victorious  on  the  wing 
Of  sounding  wheels,  our  bards  proclaim 
The  stranger  Theron’s  honour’d  name, 
The  flower  of  no  ignoble  race, 

And  prop  of  ancient  Agragas  ! — 

His  patient  sires,  for  many  a  year, 
Where  that  blue  river  rolls  its  flood, 

’Mid  fruitless  war  and  civil  blood 
Essay’d  their  sacred  home  to  rear. — 
Till  time  assign’d,  id  fatal  hour, 

Their  native  virtues,  wealth,  and  power ; 
And  made  them,  from  their  low  degree, 
The  eye  of  warlike  Sicily. 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


And  may  that  power,  of  ancient  birth, 
From  Saturn  sprung,  and  parent  Earth, 
Of  tall  Olympus’  lord, 

Who  sees  with  still  benignant  eye 
The  games’  long  splendour  sweeping  by 
His  Alpheus’  holy  ford  : — 

Appeased  with  anthems  chanted  high, 

To  Theron’s  late  posterity 

A  happier  doom  accord  ! — 

Or  good  or  ill,  the  past  is  gone, 

Nor  time  himself,  the  parent  one, 

Can  make  the  former  deeds  undone ; — 
But  who  would  these  recall, — 

When  happier  days  would  fain  efface 
The  memory  of  each  past  disgrace, 

And,  from  the  gods,  on  Theron’s  race 
Unbounded  blessings  fall ! 

Example  meet  for  such  a  song, 

The  sister  queens  of  Laius’  blood  ; 

Who  sorrow’s  edge  endured  long, 
Made  keener  by  remember’d  good  ! — 
Yet  now,  she  breathes  the  air  of  Heaven 
(On  earth  by  smouldering  thunder  riven) 
Long-haired  Semele : — 

To  Pallas  dear  is  she  ; — 

Dear  to  the  sire  of  gods,  and  dear 
To  him,  her  son,  in  dreadful  glee, 

Who  shakes  the  ivy-wreathed  spear.— - 


260 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  thus  they  tell  that  deep  below 
The  sounding  ocean’s  ebb  and  flow, 
Amid  the  daughters  of  the  sea, 

A  sister  nymph  must  Ino  be, 

And  dwell  in  bliss  eternally : — 

But  ignorant  and  blind, 

We  little  know  the  coming  hour! 

Or  if  the  latter  day  shall  lower; 

Or  if  to  nature’s  kindly  power 
Our  life  in  peace  resign’d, 

Shall  sink  like  fall  of  summer  eve, 
And  on  the  face  of  darkness  leave 
A  ruddy  smile  behind. — 

For  grief  and  joy  with  fitful  gale 
Our  crazy  bark  by  turns  assail, 

And,  whence  our  blessings  flow, 
That  same  tremendous  Providence 
Will  oft  a  varying  doom  dispense, 
And  lay  the  mighty  low. — 

To  Theban  Laius  that  befell, 

Whose  son,  with  murder  dyed, 
Fulfill’d  the  former  oracle, 
Unconscious  parricide ! — 
Unconscious  ! — yet  avenging  hell 
Pursued  the  offender’s  stealthy  pace, 
And  heavy,  sure,  and  hard  it  fell, 

The  curse  of  blood,  on  all  his  race ! 
Spared  from  their  kindred  strife, 
The  young  Thersander’s  life, 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 

Stern  Polynice’s  heir,  was  left  alone : 

In  every  martial  game, 

And  in  the  field  of  Fame, 

For  early  force  and  matchless  prowess  known 
Was  left,  the  pride  and  prop  to  be 
Of  good  Adrastus’  pedigree. 

And  hence,  through  loins  of  ancient  kings, 
The  warrior  blood  of  Theron  springs : 
Exalted  name  !  to  whom  belong 
The  minstrel’s  harp,  the  poet’s  song, 

In  fair  Olympia  crown’d  ; 

And  where,  ’mid  Pythia’s  olives  blue, 

An  equal  lot  his  brother  drew ; 

And  where  his  twice-twain  coursers  flew 
The  isthmus  twelve  times  round. — 

Such  honour,  earn’d  by  toil  and  care, 

May  best  his  ancient  wrongs  repair, 

And  wealth,  unstain’d  by  pride, 

May  laugh  at  fortune’s  fickle  power, 

And  blameless  in  the  tempting  hour 
Of  syren  ease  abide  : — 

Led  by  that  star  of  heavenly  ray, 

Which  best  may  keep  our  darkling  way 
O’er  life’s  unsteady  tide  ! 

For,  whoso  holds  in  righteousness  the  throne, 
He  in  his  heart  hath  known 
How  the  foul  spirits  of  the  guilty  dead, 

In  chambers  dark  and  dread, 

Of  nether  earth  abide,  and  penal  flame  : 

Where  he  whom  none  may  name, 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Lays  bare  the  soul  by  stern  necessity; 

Seated  in  judgment  high ; 

The  minister  of  God  whose  arm  is  there, 

In  heaven  alike  and  hell,  almighty  everywhere  ! — 
But,  ever  bright,  by  day,  by  night, 

Exulting  in  excess  of  light ; 

From  labour  free  and  long  distress. 

The  good  enjoy  their  happiness. — 

No  more  the  stubborn  soil  they  cleave, 

Nor  stem  for  scanty  food  the  wave; 

But  with  the  venerable  gods  they  dwell : — 

No  tear  bedims  their  thankful  eye, 

Nor  mars  their  long  tranquillity ; 

While  those  accursed  howl  in  pangs  unspeakable.— 

But,  who  the  thrice-renew’d  probation 
Of  either  world  may  well  endure  ; 

And  keep  with  righteous  destination 
The  soul  from  all  transgression  pure  ; 

To  such  and  such  alone  is  given, 

To  walk  the  rainbow  paths  of  heaven, 

To  that  tall  city  of  almighty  time, 

Where  ocean’s  balmy  breezes  play, 

And,  flashing  to  the  western  day, 

The  gorgeous  blossoms  of  such  blessed  clime, 

Now  in  the  happy  isles  are  seen 
Sparkling  through  the  groves  of  green ; 

And  now,  all  glorious  to  behold, 

Tinge  the  wave  with  floating  gold, — 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


265 


■■■■I 


Hence  are  tlieir  garlands  woven — hence  their  hands 
Fill’d  with  triumphal  boughs; — the  righteous  doom 
Of  Rhadamanthus,  whom,  o’er  these  his  lands, 

A  blameless  judge  in  every  time  to  come, 

Chronos,  old  Chronos,  sire  of  gods,  hath  placed  ; 
Who  with  his  consort  dear, 

Dread  Rhea,  reigneth  here 
On  cloudy  throne,  with  deathless  honour  graced.-  — 

And  still  they  say,  in  high  communion, 

Peleus  and  Cadmus  here  abide ; 

And,  with  the  blest  in  blessed  union, 

(Nor  Jove  has  Thetis’  prayer  denied,) 

The  daughter  of  the  ancient  sea 
Hath  brought  her  warrior  boy  to  be ; 

Him  whose  stern  avenging  blow 
Laid  the  prop  of  Ilium  low, 

Hector,  train’d  to  slaughter  fell, 

By  all  but  him  invincible  ; — 

And  sea-born  Cycnus  tamed ;  and  slew 
Aurora’s  knight  of  Ethiop  hue. — 

Beneath  my  rattling  belt  I  wear 
A  sheaf  of  arrows  keen  and  clear, 

Of  vocal  shafts,  that  wildly  fly, 

Nor  ken  the  base  their  import  high, 

Yet  to  the  wise  they  breathe  no  vulgar  melody. 
Yes,  he  is  wise  whom  nature’s  dower 
Hath  raised  above  the  crowd. — 

But,  train’d  in  study’s  formal  hour, 


HEBEE’S  POETICAL  WOEKS. 


There  are  who  hate  the  minstrel’s  power, 
As  daws  who  mark  the  eagle  tower, 

And  croak  in  envy  loud  ! — 

So  let  them  rail !  but  thou!  my  heart, 
Rest  on  the  bow  thy  levell’d  dart ; 

Nor  seek  a  worthier  aim 
For  arrow  sent  on  friendship’s  wing, 
Than  him  the  Agragantine  king 

Who  best  thy  song  may  claim. — 
For,  by  eternal  truth  I  swear, 

His  parent  town  shall  scantly  bear 
A  soul  to  every  friend  so  dear, 

A  breast  so  void  of  blame ; 

Though  twenty  lustres  rolling  round, 
With  rising  youth  her  nation  crown’d, 

In  heart,  in  hand,  should  none  be  found 
Like  Theron’s  honour’d  name. — 

Yes  !  we  have  heard  the  factious  lie  ! — 
But  let  the  babbling  vulgar  try 
To  blot  his  worth  with  tyranny. — 

Seek  thou  the  ocean  strand ! — 

And  when  thy  soul  would  fain  record 
The  bounteous  deeds  of  yonder  lord, 

Go — reckon  up  the  sand  ! — 


■ 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC, 


265 


III. 


TO  THE  SAME. 


May  my  solemn  strain  ascending 
Please  the  long-hair’d  Helen  well, 

And  those  brave  twins  of  Leda’s  shell 
The  stranger’s  holy  cause  defending ! 

With  whose  high  name  the  chorus  blending 
To  ancient  Agragas  shall  rise, 

And  Theron  for  the  chariot  prize 
Again,  and  not  in  vain,  contending. — 

The  muse,  in  numbers  bold  and  high, 

Hath  taught  my  Dorian  note  to  fly, 

Worthy  of  silent  awe,  a  strange  sweet  harmony.-- 

Yes  ! — as  I  fix  mine  eager  view 
On  yonder  wreath  of  paly  blue, 

That  olive  wreath,  whose  shady  round 
Amid  the  courser’s  mane  is  bound ; 

I  feel  again  the  sacred  glow 
That  bids  my  strain  of  rapture  flow, 

With  shrilly  breath  of  Spartan  flute, 

The  many- voiced  harp  to  suit ; 

And  wildly  fling  my  numbers  sweet, 

Again  mine  ancient  friend  to  greet.— 

Nor,  Pisa,  thee  I  leave  unsung; 

To  men  the  parent  of  renown. 

Amid  whose  shady  ringlets  strung, 

Etolia  binds  her  olive  crown ; 

23 


266 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Whose  sapling  root  from  Scythian  down 
And  Ister’s  fount  Alcides  bare, 

To  deck  his  parent’s  hallow’d  town; 

With  placid  brow  and  suppliant  prayer 
Soothing  the  favour’d  northern  seed, 
Whose  horny-hoofed  victims  bleed, 

To  Phoebus  of  the  flowing  hair. 

A  boon  from  these  the  Hero  pray’d : 

One  graft  of  that  delightful  tree; 

To  Jove’s  high  hill  a  welcome  shade, 

To  men  a  blessed  fruit  to  be, 

And  crown  of  future  victory. — 

For  that  fair  moon,  whose  slender  light 
With  inefficient  horn  had  shone, 

When  late  on  Pisa’s  airy  height 
He  rear’d  to  Jove  the  altar  stone; 

Now,  through  the  dappled  air,  alone, 

In  perfect  ring  of  glory  bright, 

Guided  her  golden-wheeled  throne 
The  broad  and  burning  eye  of  night. — 
And  now  the  days  were  told  aright, 

When  Alpheus,  from  his  sandy  source, 
Should  judge  the  champion’s  eager  might, 
And  mark  of  wheels  the  rolling  force. — 
Nor  yet  a  tree  to  cheer  the  sight 
The  Cronian  vale  of  Pelops  bore  ! 
Obnoxious  to  the  noonday  weight 
Of  summer  suns,  a  naked  shore. — 

But  she  who  sways  the  silent  sky, 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC.  267 

Latona’s  own  equestrian  maid 
Beheld  how  far  Alcides  stray’d, 

Bound  on  adventure  strange  and  high ; 

Forth  from  the  glens  of  Arcady 
To  Istrian  rocks  in  ice  array’d 
He  urged  the  interminable  race, 

(Such  penance  had  Eurystheus  laid,) 

The  golden-horned  hind  to  chase, 

Which,  grateful  for  Diana’s  aid, 

By  her  redeem’d  from  foul  embrace, 

Old  Atlas’  daughter  hallowed. 

Thus,  following  where  the  quarry  fled, 

Beyond  the  biting  north  he  pass’d, 

Beyond  the  regions  of  the  blast, 

And,  all  unknown  to  traveller’s  tread, 

He  saw  the  blessed  land  at  last. — 

He  stopp’d,  he  gazed  with  new  delight 
When  that  strange  verdure  met  his  sight ; 

And  soft  desire  inflamed  his  soul 
(Where  twelve-times  round  the  chariots  roll) 

To  plant  with  such  the  Pisan  goal. 

But  now,  unseen  to  mortal  eyes, 

He  comes  to  Theron’s  sacrifice ; 

And  with  him  brings  to  banquet  there 
High-bosom’d  Leda’s  knightly  pair. — 

Himself  to  high  Olympus  bound, 

To  these  a  latest  charge  he  gave, 

A  solemn  annual  feast  to  found, 

And  of  contending  heroes  round 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

To  deck  the  strong,  the  swift,  the  brave. — 

Nor  doubt  I  that  on  Theron’s  head, 

And  on  the  good  Eumenides, 

The  sons  of  Jove  their  blessing  shed ; 

Whom  still,  with  bounteous  tables  spread, 

That  holy  tribe  delight  to  please ; 

Observing  with  religious  dread 
The  hospitable  god’s  decrees. 

But,  wide  as  water  passeth  earthy  clay, 

Or  sun-bright  gold  transcendeth  baser  ore : 

Wide  as  from  Greece  to  that  remotest  shore 
Whose  rock-built  pillars  own  Alcides’  sway ; 

Thy  fame  hath  pass’d  thine  equals ! — To  explore 
The  further  ocean  all  in  vain  essay, 

Or  fools  or  wise ; — -here  from  thy  perilous  way 
Cast  anchor  here,  my  bark !  I  dare  no  more ! — 


IV. 

TO  PSATJMIS  OP  CAHARI9A. 

Oh,  urging  on  the  tireless  speed 
Of  thunder’s  elemental  steed, 

Lord  of  the  world,  Almighty  Jove  ! 

Since  these  thine  hours  have  sent  me  forth 
The  witness  of  thy  champion’s  worth, 

And  prophet  of  thine  olive  grove  ; — 

And  since  the  good  thy  poet  hear, 

And  hold  his  tuneful  message  dear ; — 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 

Saturnian  Lord  of  Etna  hill ! _ 

Whose  storm-cemented  rocks  encage 
The  hundred-headed  rebel’s  rage ; 

Accept  with  favourable  will 
The  Muses’  gift  of  harmony  : 

The  dance,  the  song,  whose  numbers  high 
Forbid  the  hero’s  name  to  die, 

A  crown  of  life  abiding  still ! — 

Hark  !  round  the  car  of  victory, 

Where  noble  Psaumis  sits  on  high, 

The  cheering  notes  resound ; 

Who  vows  to  swell  with  added  fame 
His  Camarina’s  ancient  name; 

With  Pisan  olive  crown’d. — 

And  thou,  oh  father,  hear  his  prayer ! — 
For  much  I  praise  the  knightly  care 
That  trains  the  warrior  steed : 

Nor  less  the  hospitable  hall 
Whose  open  doors  the  stranger  call  ; 

Yet,  praise  I  Psaumis  most  of  all 
For  wise  and  peaceful  rede, 

And  patriot  love  of  liberty. — 

— What  ? — do  we  weave  the  glozing  lie  ? _ 

Then  whoso  list  my  truth  to  try, 

The  proof  be  in  the  deed  ! — 

To  Lemnos’  laughing  dames  of  yore, 

Such  was  the  proof  Ernicus  bore, 

When,  matchless  in  his  speed, 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


All  brazen-arm’d  the  racer  hoar, 
Victorious  on  the  applauding  shore, 
Sprang  to  the  proffer’d  meed  ; — 

Bow’d  to  the  Queen  his  wreathed  head  ; — 
“Thou  seest  my  limbs  are  light,”  he  said; 

“  And,  lady,  mayst  thou  know, 

That  every  joint  is  firmly  strung, 

And  hand  and  heart  alike  are  young  ; 
Though  treacherous  time  my  locks  among 
Have  strew’d  a  summer  snow  !” — 


V. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

Accept  of  these  Olympian  games  the  crown, 
Daughter  of  Ocean,  rushy  Camarine  ! — 

The  flower  of  knightly  worth  and  high  renown, 
Which  car-borne  Psaumis  on  thy  parent  shrine, 
(Psaumis,  the  patriot,  whom  thy  peopled  town 
Its  second  author  owns,)  with  rite  divine 
Suspends ! — His  praise  the  twice  six  altars  tell 
Of  the  great  gods  whom  he  hath  feasted  well 
With  blood  of  bull ;  the  praise  of  victory, 

Where  cars  and  mules  and  steeds  contest  the  prize 
And  that  green  garland  of  renown  to  thee 
He  hallows,  virgin  daughter  of  the  sea ! 

And  to  his  sire  and  household  deities. — 

Thee,  too,  returning  home  from  Pelops’  land, 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


27 


Thee,  guardian  Pallas,  and  thy  holy  wood, 

He  hails  with  song ;  and  cool  Oanus’  flood ; 

And  of  his  native  pool  the  rushy  strand ; 

And  thy  broad  bed,  refreshing  Hipparis, 

Whose  silent  waves  the  peopled  city  kiss ; 

That  city  which  hath  blest  his  bounteous  hand 
Rearing  her  goodly  bowers  on  high. — 

That  now,  redeem’d  from  late  disgrace, 

The  wealthy  mother  of  a  countless  race, 

She  lifts  her  front  in  shining  majesty. 

’Tis  ever  thus !  by  toil,  and  pain, 

And  cumbrous  cost,  we  strive  to  gain 
Some  seeming  prize  whose  issues  lie 
In  darkness  and  futurity. 

And  yet,  if  conquest  crown  our  aim, 

Then  foremost  in  the  rolls  of  fame, 

Even  from  the  envious  herd  a  forced  applause  we  claim 
0  cloud  enthroned,  protecting  Jove, 

Who  sits  the  Cronian  cliffs  above, 

And  Alpheus’  ample  wave, 

And  that  dark  gloom  hast  deign’d  to  love 
Of  Ida’s  holy  cave  ! 

On  softest  Lydian  notes  to  thee 
I  tune  the  choral  prayer, 

That  this  thy  town,  the  brave,  the  free, 

The  strong  in  virtuous  energy, 

May  feel  thine  endless  care. 

And,  victor,  thou,  whose  matchless  might 
The  Pisan  wreath  hath  bound ; 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Still,  Psaumis,  be  thy  chief  delight 
In  generous  coursers  found. — 

Calm  be  thy  latter  age,  and  late 
And  gently  fall  the  stroke  of  fate, 

Thy  children  standing  round  ! 

And  know,  when  favouring  gods  have  given 
A  green  old  age,  a  temper  even, 

And  wealth  and  fame  in  store, 

The  task  were  vain  to  scale  the  heaven;— 
Have  those  immortals  more  ? — 

— »— 

VL 

TO  AGESIAS  OP  SYRACUSE. 

Who  seeks  a  goodly  bower  to  raise, 
Conspicuous  to  the  stranger’s  eye, 

With  gold  the  lintel  overlays, 

And  clothes  the  porch  in  ivory. 

So  bright,  so  bold,  so  wonderful, 

The  choicest  themes  of  verse  I  cull, 

To  each  high  song  a  frontal  high  ! — 

But  lives  there  one,  whose  brows  around 
The  green  Olympian  wreath  is  bound ; 
Prophet  and  priest  in  those  abodes 
Where  Pisans  laud  the  sire  of  gods ; 

And  Syracusa’s  denizen?” — 

Who,  ’mid  the  sons  of  mortal  men, 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


278 


While  envy’s  self  before  his  name 
Abates  her  rage,  may  fitlier  claim 
Whate’er  a  bard  may  yield  of  fame  ? — ■ 
For  sure,  to  no  forbidden  strife, 

In  hallow’d  Pisa’s  field  of  praise, 

He  came,  the  priest  of  blameless  life ! — 
Nor  who  in  peace  hath  pass’d  his  days, 
Marring  with  canker  sloth  his  might, 

May  hope  a  name  in  standing  fight 
Nor  in  the  hollow  ship  to  raise  !— 

By  toil,  illustrious  toil  alone, 

Of  elder  times  the  heroes  shone ; 

And,  bought  by  like  emprize,  to  thee, 

0  warrior  priest,  like  honour  be ; — 

Such  praise  as  good  Adrastus  bore 
To  him,  the  prophet  chief  of  yore, 

When,  snatch’d  from  Thebes’  accursed  fight, 
With  steed  and  car  and  armour  bright, 
Down,  down  he  sank  to  earthly  night. 

When  the  fight  was  ended, 

And  the  sevenfold  pyres 
All  their  funeral  fires 
In  one  sad  lustre  blended, 

The  leader  of  the  host 
Murmur’d  mournfully, 

“  I  lament  the  eye 
Of  all  mine  army  lost ! — 

To  gods  and  mortals  dear, 


274 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Either  art  he  knew ; 

Augur  tried  and  true, 

And  strong  to  wield  the  spear !” — 

And,  by  the  powers  divine, 

Such  praise  is  justly  thine, 

Oh  Syracusian  peer. — 

For  of  a  gentle  blood  thy  race  is  sprung, 

And  she  shall  truly  tell,  the  muse  of  honey’d  tongue. 

Then  yoke  the  mules  of  winged  pace, 

And,  Phintis,  climb  the  car  with  me ; 

For  well  they  know  the  path  to  trace 
Of  yonder  victor’s  pedigree  ! — 

Unbar  the  gates  of  song,  unbar  ! — 

For  we  to-day  must  journey  far, 

To  Sparta  and  to  Pitane. — 

She,  mournful  nymph,  and  nursing  long 
Her  silent  pain  and  virgin  wrong. 

To  Neptune’s  rape  a  daughter  fair, 

Evadne  of  the  glossy  hair, 

(Dark  as  the  violet’s  darkest  shade,) 

In  solitary  sorrow  bare. 

Then  to  her  nurse  the  infant  maid 
She  weeping  gave,  and  bade  convey 
To  high  Phersana’s  hall  away ; 

Where,  woman-grown,  and  doom’d  to  prove 
In  turn  a  god’s  disastrous  love, 

Her  charms  allured  the  Lord  of  day . — 

Nor  long  the  months,  ere  fierce  in  pride, 

The  painful  tokens  of  disgrace 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC.  276 

Her  foster  father  sternly  eyed, 

Fruit  of  the  furtive  god’s  embrace. — 

He  spake  not,  but  with  soul  on  flame, 

He  sought  th’  unknown  offender’s  name, 

At  Phoebus’  Pythian  dwelling  place. — 

But  she,  beneath  the  greenwood  spray, 

Her  zone  of  purple  silk  untied  ; 

And  flung  the  silver  clasp  away 
That  rudely  press’d  her  heaving  side ; 

While,  in  the  solitary  wood, 

Lucina’s  self  to  aid  her  stood, 

And  fate  a  secret  force  supplied. — 

But,  who  the  mother’s  pang  can  tell, 

As  sad  and  slowly  she  withdrew, 

And  bade  her  babe  a  long  farewell, 

Laid  on  a  bed  of  violets  blue  ? — 

When,  ministers  of  Heaven’s  decree, 

(Dire  nurses  they  and  strange  to  see,) 

Two  scaly  snakes  of  azure  hue 
Watch’d  o’er  his  helpless  infancy, 

And,  rifled  from  the  mountain  bee, 

Bare  on  their  forky  tongues  a  harmless  honey-dew.— 

Swift  roll  the  wheels  !  from  Delphos’  home 
Arcadia’s  car-borne  chief  is  come : 

But,  ah,  how  changed  his  eye ! — 

His  wrath  is  sunk,  and  pass’d  his  pride, 

“  Where  is  Evadne’s  babe,”  he  cried, 

“  Child  of  the  Deity*?” 


4 


270  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

’Twas  thus  the  augur  god  replied, 

Nor  strove  his  noble  seed  to  hide : 

And  to  his  favour’d  boy,  beside 
The  gift  of  prophecy, 

And  power  beyond  the  sons  of  men 
The  secret  things  of  fate  to  ken, 

His  blessing  will  supply.” — 

But,  vainly,  from  his  liegemen  round, 

He  sought  the  noble  child ! 

Who,  naked  on  the  grassy  ground, 

And  nurtured  in  the  wild, 

Was  moisten’d  with  the  sparkling  dew 
Beneath  his  hawthorn  bower ; 

Where  morn  her  wat’ry  radiance  threw, 

Now  golden  bright,  now  deeply  blue, 

Upon  the  violet  flower. — 

From  that  dark  bed  of  breathing  bloom 
His  mother  gave  his  name ; 

And  Iamus,  through  years  to  come, 

Will  live  in  lasting  fame ; 

Who,  when  the  blossom  of  his  days 
Had  ripen’d  on  the  tree, 

From  forth  the  brink  where  Alpheus  strays, 
Invoked  the  god  whose  sceptre  sways 
The  hoarse  resounding  sea ; 

And,  whom  the  Delian  isle  obeys, 

The  archer  deity. — 

Alone  amid  the  nightly  shade, 

Beneath  the  naked  heaven  he  pray’d, 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


277 


I 


And  sire  and  grandsire  call’d  to  aid ; 

When  lo,  a  voice  that  loud  and  dread 
Burst  from  the  horizon  free ; 

“  Hither  !”  it  spake,  “  to  Pisa’s  shore  ! 

My  voice,  oh  son,  shall  go  before, 

Beloved,  follow  me !” 

So,  in  the  visions  of  his  sire,  he  went 
Where  Cronium’s  scarr’d  and  barren  brow 
Was  red  with  morning’s  earliest  glow, 

Though  darkness  wrapp’d  the  nether  element— 
.  There,  in  a  lone  and  craggy  dell, 

A  double  spirit  on  him  fell, 

Th’  unlying  voice  of  birds  to  tell, 

And,  (when  Alcmena’s  son  should  found 
The  holy  games  in  Elis  crown’d,) 

Jove’s  high  altar  evermore  to  dwell, 

Prophet  and  priest !— From  him  descend 
The  fathers  of  our  valiant  friend, 

Wealthy  alike  and  just  and  wise, 

Who  trod  the  plain  and  open  way ; 

And  who  is  he  that  dared  despise 
With  galling  taunt  the  Cronian  prize, 

Or  their  illustrious  toil  gainsay, 

Whose  chariots  whirling  twelve  times  round 
With  burning  wheels  th’  Olympian  ground 
Have  gilt  their  brow  with  glory’s  ray  ? 

For,  not  the  steams  of  sacrifice 
From  cool  Cyllene’s  height  of  snow, 

Nor  vainly  from  thy  kindred  rise 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

The  heaven-appeasing  litanies 
To  Hermes,  who,  to  men  below, 

Or  gives  the  garland  or  denies  : — 

By  whose  high  aid,  Agesias,  know, 

And  his,  the  thunderer  of  the  skies, 

The  olive  wreath  hath  bound  thy  brow ! — 

Arcadian  !  Yes,  a  warmer  zeal 
Shall  whet  my  tongue  thy  praise  to  tell 
I  feel  the  sympathetic  flame 
Of  kindred  love — a  Theban  I, 

Whose  parent  nymph  from  Arcady 
(Metope’s  daughter,  Thebe)  came. — 

Dear  fountain  goddess,  warrior  maid, 

By  whose  pure  rills  my  youth  hath  play’d  ; 
Who  now  assembled  Greece  among, 

To  car-borne  chiefs  and  warriors  strong, 
Have  wove  the  many-colour’d  song. — 

Then,  minstrel !  bid  thy  chorus  rise 
To  Juno,  queen  of  deities, 

Parthenian  lady  of  the  skies  ! 

For,  live  there  yet  who  dare  defame 
With  sordid  mirth  our  country’s  name ; 
Who  tax  with  scorn  our  ancient  line, 

And  call  the  brave  Boeotians  swine  ? — 
Yet,  iEneas,  sure  thy  numbers  high 
May  charm  their  brutish  enmity : 

Dear  herald  of  the  holy  muse, 

And,  teeming  with  Parnassian  dews, 

Cup  of  untasted  harmony  ! 

\ 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC.  279 

That  strain  once  more ! — The  chorus  raise 
To  Syracusa’s  wealthy  praise, 

And  his  the  lord  whose  happy  reign 
Controls  Trinacria’s  ample  plain, 

Hiero,  the  just,  the  wise, 

Whose  steamy  offerings  rise 
To  Jove,  to  Ceres,  and  that  darling  maid, 

Whom,  rapt  in  chariot  bright, 

And  horses  silver-white, 

Down  to  his  dusky  bower  the  lord  of  hell  convey’d ! 

Oft  hath  he  heard  the  Muses’  string  resound 
Ilis  honour’d  name ;  and  may  his  latter  days, 

With  wealth,  and  worth,  and  minstrel  garlands  crown’d, 
Mark  with  no  envious  ear  a  subject  praise, 

Who  now  from  fair  Arcadia’s  forest  wide 
To  Syracusa,  homeward,  from  his  home 
Returns,  a  common  care,  a  common  pride. — 

(And,  whoso  darkling  braves  the  ocean’s  foam, 

May  safeliest  moor’d  with  twofold  anchor  ride  ;) 
Arcadia,  Sicily  on  either  side 

Guard  him  with  prayer ; — and  thou  who  rulest  the  deep. 
Fair  Amphitrite’s  lord  !  in  safety  keep 
His  tossing  keel, — and  evermore  to  me 
No  meaner  theme  assign  of  poesy ! 


280 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


TRANSLATION 

OP 

A  FRAGMENT  OF  A  DANISH  SONG. 

King  Christian  stood  beside  the  mast, 

In  smoky  night ; 

His  falchion  fell  like  hammer  fast, 

And  brains  and  helms  asunder  brast ; 

Then  sunk  each  hostile  hull  and  mast 
In  smoky  night ; 

Fly,  fly  !  they  shriek’d — what  mortal  man 
Can  strive  with  Denmark’s  Christian 
In  fight  ? 

Niels  Juel  raised  a  warrior  cry, 

“Now,  now’s  the  day  !” 

He  hoisted  up  the  red  flag  high, 

And  dash’d  amidst  the  enemy 
With  blow  on  blow,  and  cry  on  cry 
“  Now,  now’s  the  day  !” 

And  still  they  shriek’d — “  Fly,  Sweden,  fly ! 
When  Juel  comes,  what  strength  shall  try 
The  fray  ?” 

*  *  * 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


♦ 


283 


TRANSLATION 

OP 

AN  INSCRIPTION  ON  A  MONUMENT, 

NTENL’ED  TO  PERPETUATE  THE  MEMORY  OP  THE  FRIENDSHIP  OF  TWO  PERSONS 
WHO  WERE  LIVING  WHEN  IT  WAS  WRITTEN. 

“May  every  light-wing’d  moment  bear 
A  blessing  to  this  noble  pair. 

Long  may  they  love  the  rural  ease 
Of  these  fair  scenes,  and  scenes  like  these ; 

The  pine’s  dark  shade,  the  mountain  tall, 

And  the  deep  dashing  waterfall. 

And  when  each  hallow’d  spirit  flies 
To  seek  a  better  paradise, 

Beneath  this  turf  their  ashes  dear 
Shall  drink  their  country’s  grateful  tear ; 

In  death  alike  and  life  possessing 

The  rich  man’s  love,  the  poor  man’s  blessing.” 


♦  ■  ■ 

VERSIFICATION 

OF 

THE  SPEECH  OF  GEOORGIN  TO  BEYUN. 

(FROM  THE  SHAH  NAMEH.) 

Seest  thou  yon  shelter’d  vale  of  various  dye, 

Refreshing  prospect  to  the  warrior’s  eye  ? 

24* 


282 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yon  dusky  grove,  yon  garden  blooming  fair, 

The  turf  of  velvet,  and  of  musk  the  air  ? 

Surcharged  with  sweets  the  languid  river  glides, 

The  lilies  bending  o’er  its  silver  tides ; 

While  through  the  copse  in  bashful  beauty  glows 
The  dark  luxuriance  of  the  lurking  rose. 

Now  seen,  now  lost,  amid  the  flowery  maze, 

With  slender  foot  the  nimble  pheasant  strays ; 

The  ringdove’s  murmur  lulls  the  cypress  dell, 

And  richest  notes  of  tranced  Philomel. 

Still,  still  the  same,  through  every  circling  year, 
Unwearied  spring  renews  an  Eden  here. 

And  mark,  my  friend,  where  many  a  sylph-like  maid 
Weaves  the  lithe  dance  beneath  the  citron  shade ! 

Where  chief,  of  Touran’s  king  the  matchless  child, 
Beams  like  a  sun-ray  through  this  scented  wild ; 

Sitara  next,  her  sister,  beauteous  queen, 

Than  rose  or  fairest  jasmine  fairer  seen  ; 

And  last,  their  Turkish  maids,  whose  sleepy  eyes 
Laugh  from  beneath  each  envious  veil’s  disguise ; 

Whose  length  of  locks  the  coal-black  musk  disclose, 
Their  forms  the  cypress,  and  their  cheeks  the  rose ; 
While  on  their  sugar’d  lips  the  grape’s  rich  water  glows. 
How  blest  the  traveller  not  forbid  to  stay 
In  such  sweet  bowers  the  scorching  summer’s  day  ! 

How  famed  the  knight  whose  dauntless  arm  should  bear 
To  great  Khi-Kusroo’s  court  a  Turkish  fair  ! 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


283 


FROM  THE  MOALLAKAH  OF  HARET1I. 

And  Asma  !  lovely  sojourner !  wilt  thou  forsake  our  land, 
Forgetful  of  thy  plighted  vows  on  Shamma’s  glittering 
sand  ? 

No  more  in  Shoreb’s  rugged  dell  I  see  thee  by  my  side, 

No  more  in  Katha’s  mead  of  green  where  vocal  waters 
glide ! 

In  Ayla  and  in  Shobathan  all  lonely  must  I  go, 

And,  therefore,  sleep  has  fled  my  soul,  and  fast  my  sorrows 
flow ! 

Yet  am  I  loved,  and  yet  my  eyes  behold  the  beacon  light, 
Which  Hinda  kindles  on  her  hill,  to  lure  me  through  the 
night, 

Broad  as  the  dawn,  from  Akik’s  brow  its  ruddy  embers  shine, 
But  Hinda’s  heart  may  never  meet  an  answering  glow  in 
mine ! 

And  I  must  seek  a  nobler  aid  against  consuming  care, 
Where  all  the  brethren  of  my  tribe  the  battle  bow  prepare. 

My  camel  with  the  mother-bird  in  swiftness  well  may  vie, 
Tall  as  a  tent,  ’mid  desert  sands  that  rears  her  progeny, 
That  lists  the  murmur  of  the  breeze,  the  hunter’s  lightest 
sound 

With  stealthy  foot  at  twilight  fall  soft  gliding  o’er  the 
ground ; 

But  not  the  ostrich  speed  of  fire  my  camel  can  excel, 
Whose  footstep  leaves  so  light  a  mark  we  guess  not  where 
it  fell ; 


9 


I 


284  HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

Now  up,  now  down,  like  wither’d  leaves  that  flit  before  the 
wind, 

On  her  I  stem  the  burning  noon  that  strikes  the  valiant 
blind. 

Yes,  we  have  heard  an  angry  sound  of  danger  from  afar, 

Our  brother’s  bands  of  Tayleb’s  seed  have  braved  us  to  the 
war ; 

■The  good  and  evil  they  confound,  their  words  are  fierce 
and  fell, 

“Their  league,”  say  they,  “is  with  the  tribe  that  in  the 
desert  dwell.” 

Their  men  of  might  have  met  by  night,  and  as  the  day 
began, 

A  proud  and  a  disdainful  shout  throughout  their  army  ran, 

And  horses  neigh’d,  and  camels  scream’d,  and  man  cried 
out  on  man ! 


— • — 

TRANSLATION  OF  AN  ODE  OF  KLOPSTOCK'S. 


HE. 

Ah  Selma !  if  our  love  the  fates  should  sever, 

And  bear  thy  spirit  from  the  world  below, 

Then  shall  mine  eyes  be  wet  with  tears  for  ever, 
Each  gloomy  morn,  each  night  of  darker  woe ; 
Each  hour,  that  pass’d  so  soon  in  thy  embracing, 
Each  minute  keenly  felt  shall  force  a  tear ; 

The  long,  long  months  !  the  years  so  slowly  pacing ! 
Which  all  were  swift  alike,  and  all  were  dear. 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


285 


8HB. 

Mj  Selmar !  ah,  if  from  thy  Selma  parted, 

Thy  soul  should  first  the  paths  of  darkness  tread, 
Sad  were  my  course,  and  short,  and  broken-hearted, 
To  weep  those  lonely  days,  that  dismal  bed  ! 

Each  hour  that  erst  in  converse  sweet  returning, 
Shone  with  thy  smile,  or  sparkled  with  thy  tear  ; 
Each  lingering  day  should  lengthen  out  my  mourning, 
The  days  that  pass’d  so  swiftly  and  so  dear ! 

HE. 

And  did  I  promise,  Selma,  years  of  sorrow  ? 

And  canst  thou  linger  only  days  behind  ? 

Few  minutes,  few,  be  mine  from  fate  to  borrow, 

Near  thy  pale  cheek  and  breathless  form  reclined, 
Press  thy  dead  hand,  and,  wildly  bending  o’er  thee, 
Print  one  last  kiss  upon  thy  glazed  eye. 

8  BE. 

Nay,  Selmar,  nay — I  will  not  fall  before  thee ; 

That  pang  be  mine ;  thou  shalt  not  see  me  die ; 
Some  few  sad  moments  on  thy  death-bed  lying, 

By  thy  pale  corpse  my  trembling  frame  shall  be 
Gaze  on  thy  alter’d  form,  then,  inly  sighing, 

Sink  on  that  breast,  and  wax  as  pale  as  thee. 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


286 


TRANSLATION 

OP 

AN  INSCRIPTION  RECENTLY  DISCOVERED  IN  SAMOS. 

(clarke’s  travels.) 

* 

Turinna,  famed  for  every  grace 
Of  learning  and  of  ancient  race, 

Whom  all  the  virtues  did  consent 
With  all  their  gifts  to  ornament, 

When  thrice  nine  little  years  are  flown 
Hath  left  her  parents  to  bemoan, 

With  bitter  tears,  the  early  dead 
By  whom  their  house  is  widowed. 

For  nought  remains,  now  she  is  gone, 

That  love  or  hope  may  rest  upon. 

And  she  hath  left  her  palace  home 
To  sleep  within  the  narrow  tomb. 

Yet  may  her  race,  or  good  men  feign, 

Revive  from  such  distress  again. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

Take  here  the  tender  harp  again, 

0  Muse  !  which  thou  hast  lent  to  me ; 
I  wake  no  more  the  joyous  strain 
To  youthful  love  or  social  glee. 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


287 


Forgive  the  weak  and  sickly  shell 
That  could  so  ill  ray  soul  express ; 

What  most  I  wish’d  I  durst  not  tell, 

And  chose  my  themes  from  idleness. 

Oft  when  I  told  of  peace  and  pleasure, 

I  mark’d  the  hostile  sabre  shine ; 

And  water,  doled  in  scanty  measure, 

I  drank,  who  wont  to  sing  of  wine. 

Might  peace,  might  love’s  auspicious  fire 
But  gild  at  last  my  closing  day, 

Then,  Goddess,  then  return  the  lyre 
To  wake  perhaps  a  loftier  lay. 


♦ 


FROM  THE  GULISTAN. 

INSCRIPTION  OVER  THE  ARCHED  ALCOVE  OP  FERIDOON’s  CALL. 

Brother  !  know  the  world  deceiveth  ! 
Trust  on  Him  who  safely  giveth  ! 

Fix  not  on  the  world  thy  trust, 

She  feeds  us — hut  she  turns  to  dust, 

And  the  bare  earth  or  kingly  throne 
Alike  may  serve  to  die  upon ! 


288 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


FROM  THE  GULISTAN. 

The  man  who  leaveth  life  behind, 

May  well  and  boldly  speak  his  mind: 
Where  flight  is  none  from  battle  field, 

We  blithely  snatch  the  sword  and  shield , 
Where  hope  is  past,  and  hate  is  strong, 
The  wretch’s  tongue  is  sharp  and  long; 
Myself  have  seen,  in  wild  despair, 

The  feeble  cat  the  mastiff  tear. 


FROM  THE  GULISTAN. 

Who  the  silent  man  can  prize, 

If  a  fool  he  be  or  wise  ? 

Yet,  though  lonely  seem  the  wood, 
Therein  may  lurk  the  beast  of  blood. 
Often  bashful  looks  conceal 
Tongue  of  fire  and  heart  of  steel. 
And  deem  not  thou,  in  forest  gray, 
Every  dappled  skin  thy  prey ; 

Lest  thou  rouse,  with  luckless  spear, 
The  tiger  for  the  fallow  deer ! 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


289 


IMITATION  OF  AN  ODE  BY  KOODRUT. 

Ambition’s  voice  was  in  my  ear,  she  whisper’d  yesterday, 

“  How  goodly  is  the  land  of  Room,  how  wide  the  Russian 
sway ! 

How  bless’d  to  conquer  either  realm,  and  dwell  through 
life  to  come, 

Lull’d  by  the  harp’s  melodious  string,  cheer’d  by  the 
northern  drum !” 

But  Wisdom  heard  ;  “  Oh  youth,”  she  said,  “in  passion’s 
fetter  tied, 

0  come  and  see  a  sight  with  me  shall  cure  thee  of  thy 
pride !” 

She  led  me  to  a  lonely  dell,  a  sad  and  shady  ground, 

Where  many  an  ancient  sepulchre  gleam’d  in  the  moon¬ 
shine  round. 

And  “Here  Secunder  sleeps,”  she  cried;  “this  is  his 
rival’s  stone ; 

And  here  the  mighty  chief  reclines  who  rear’d  the  Median 
throne. 

Inquire  of  these,  doth  aught  of  all  their  ancient  pomp 
remain 

Save  late  regret  and  bitter  tears  for  ever  and  in  vain  ? 

Return,  return,  and  in  thy  heart  engraven  keep  my  lore ; 

The  lesser  wealth  the  lighter  load, — small  blame  betides 
the  poor.” 

25 


290 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


TRANSLATION  OF  A  SONNET. 

% 

BY  THE  LATE  NAWAB  OF  OUDE,  ASUF  UD  DOWLA. 

In  those  eyes  that  glisten  as  in  pity  for  my  pain, 

Are  they  gems,  or  only  dew-drops  ?  Can  they,  will  they 
lcng  remain  ? 

Why  the  strength  of  tyrant  beauty  thus,  with  seeming 
ruth  restrain  ? 

Better  breathe  my  last  before  thee,  than  in  lingering  grief 
remain. 

To  yon  planet,  Fate  has  given  every  month  to  wax  and 
wane ; 

And — thy  world  of  blushing  brightness, — can  it,  will  it 
long  remain  ? 

Asuf!  why  in  mournful  numbers,  of  thine  absence  thus 
complain, 

Chance  has  join’d  us,  chance  has  parted  ! — nought  on 
earth  can  long  remain. 

In  the  world  mayst  thou,  belovbd !  live  exempt  from  grief 
and  pain. 

On  my  lips  the  breath  is  fleeting — can  it,  will  it  long 
remain  ? 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


THE  BOKE  OF  THE  PURPLE  FAUCON. 

Icy  commence  le  Romaunt  du  Grand  Roye  Pantagruelle. 

Yt  is  a  kynge  both  fyne  and  felle, 

That  hyght  Sir  Claudyus  Pantagruelle, — 
The  fynest  and  fellest,  more  or  lesse, 

Of  alle  the  kynges  in  Heathenesse. 

That  Syre  was  Soudan  of  Surrye, 

Of  (Estrick  and  of  Cappadocie, 

His  Eme  was  Lorde  I  understonde 
Of  all  Cathye  and  of  Boehman  Londe. 

LXX  Dukes,  that  were  soe  wighte, 

Served  him  by  daie  and  by  nighte. 

Thereto  he  made  him  a  lothely  messe, 

Everie  morninge  more  or  lesse, 

A  manne  chylde  of  YII  yere  age, 

Thereof  he  seethed  hys  pottage. 

Everie  knyghte  who  went  that  waye 
His  nose  and  ears  was  fayne  to  paye; 
Sothely,  as  the  Romaunts  telle, 

For  the  Dyner  of  Pantagruelle. 

Yn  all  the  londes  of  Ethiope^ 

Was  ne  so  worthy  a  kinge  as  hee. 

Ande  it  befelle  upon  a  daye 
Thys  Pantagruelle  he  went  to  playe 
With  his  Ladye  thatte  was  so  brighte, 

Yn  her  bowre  vn  alle  mennes.syghte 


Le  Royaume 
de  Pantagruelle 


Comment  Pan 
tagruelle  tenayt 
bonne  table,  et 
fesoyte  belle 
chere • 


et  estoyt  digne 
roy. 


Comment  il 
almoyt  la  Royn* 
Cycile. 


292 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


1 


Comment  Pan- 
tagruelle  estoyt 
mescontent. 


Sea  armures. 


LI  graund  ma 
gycien  Virgile. 


i 


Thatte  Lady  was  hyghte  Cycelee ; 

And  thereto  sange  shee 

Alle  into  Grekysh  as  she  colde  best, 

“  Lambeth,  Sadeck,  Apocatest 

Namely,  “  My  love  yf  thou  wouldest  wynne 

Bringe  wyth  thee  a  purple  falcon  ynne. 

Thatte  laye  made  hym  sadde  and  sowre, 
And  careful  came  bee  adowne  the  towre. 

He  layde  his  hedde  upon  a  stone ; 

For  sorrow  his  lyfe  was  well  nigh  gone  ; 

He  sobbed  amayne  and  sighed  sore 
“  Alacke  Cycile,  for  evermore.” 

Hys  page  he  broughte  him  hys  helmette, 
Thatte  was  cleped  Alphabet ; 

He  donned  hys  bootes  made  of  the  skyn 
Of  Loup-garou  and  of  Gobbelyn, 

And  hys  hauberke  that  was  soe  harde 
Ywoven  welle  of  spykenarde. 

Virgile  hadde  made  that  cote-armure 
With  Maumetry  fenced  and  guarded  sure ; 
And  Hypocras  and  Arystote 
Had  woven  the  rynges  of  thatte  cote. 

He  tooke  hys  spere  that  was  so  strong, 

Hys  axe  was  sharpe,  his  sworde  was  long, 
And  thys  the  devyse  upon  his  sheilde — 

A  red  rose  yn  a  greene  fielde, 

And  under,  yn  language  of  Syrie, 

“  Belle  rose  que  tu  es  jolye.” 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC.  293 


Ycy  commence  le  II  Chant  du  Bon  Boy  Pantagruelle. 


Lysten  Lordynges  to  the  tale 
Of  Pantagruelle  and  hys  travayle. 

He  through  many  a  lande  has  gone, 
Pantagruelle  hymself  alone ; 

Many  a  hyll  most  hyghe  has  dome, 

Many  a  broade  rivere  has  swome. 

He  paste  through  Cathaye  and  Picardie, 
Babylon,  Scotland,  and  Italie ; 

And  asked  of  alle  as  yt  befelle, 

But  of  no  adventure  herde  he  telle, 

Tyl  after  manie  a  wearie  daye, 

Lyghtly  he  came  to  a  foreste  graye : 

Manie  an  auncient  oke  dyd  growe, 

Doddered  and  frynged  with  mysletoe; 

Manie  an  ashe  of  paly  hue 
Whyspered  yn  every  breeze  that  blewe. 
Pantagruelle  hath  sworne  by  Mahoune, 

Bye  Termagaunt  and  by  Abadoune, 

Bye  Venus,  thatte  was  so  sterne  and  stronge, 
And  Apollin  with  homes  longe, 

And  other  fiendes  of  Maumetrye, 

That  the  ende  of  that  foreste  he  would  see. 


Se«  Voyage*. 


Li  Seraent  d« 
Pantagruelle. 


Lysten  Lordinges  the  soothe  I  tell : 

Nothyng  was  true  that  here  befelle, 

But  all  the  okes  that  flourished  soe  free,  encLntee! 
Flourished  only  in  grammarie  ; 

25* 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 

In  that  same  foreste  nothing  grewe 
But  broad  and  darke  the  houghes  of  yew, 
Sothely  I  tell  you  and  indede 
There  was  many  a  wicked  weede  ; 

There  was  the  wolf-bane  greene  and  highe, 
Whoso  smelleth  the  same  shall  die, 

And  the  long  grasse  wyth  poyson  mixed, 
Adders  coyled  and  hyssed  betwixt. 

Yn  thatte  same  chace  myghte  noe  man  h 
Hunter  or  home  or  hounde  or  deer ; 
Neyther  dared  yn  thatte  wood  to  goe 
Coney  or  martin,  or  hare  or  doe. 

Nor  on  the  shawe  the  byrdes  gay, 

Starling,  Cuckoo,  or  Popynjay ; 

But  Gryphon  fanged,  and  bristly  boare, 
Gnarred  and  fomed  hys  way  before, 

And  the  beeste  who  can  falsely  weepe, 
Crocodilus,  was  here  goode  chepe ; 

Satyr,  and  Loapard,  and  Tygris, 

Bloody  Camelopardalys, 

And  every  make  of  beastes  bolde, 

Nestled  and  roared  in  that  their  holde. 
Dayes  and  nyghtes  but  only  IY, 

And  Pantagruelle  could  ryde  no  more. 

Hys  shoulders  were  by  hys  helmet  worne, 
He  was  a  weary  wyghte  forlorne, 

And  hys  cheeke  thatte  was  soe  redde, 
Colde  and  darke  as  the  beaten  ledde. 

Hys  destriere  might  no  further  passe, 

It  lothed  to  taste  that  evyl  grasse. 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


2‘jfi 


Heavy  lie  clombe  from  offe  hys  steede, 

Of  hys  lyfe  he  stoode  in  drede  : 

“Alacke,  alacke,  Cycelie, 

Here  I  dye  for  love  of  thee !” 

Forth  through  the  thorny  brake  hee  paste, 
Tylle  he  came  to  a  poole  at  laste ; 

And  bye  that  poole  of  water  clere 
Satte  a  manne  chylde  of  seven  yere ; 
Clothed  he  was  in  scarlet  and  graine, 

Cloth  of  silver  and  cordovaine ; 

As  a  field  flower  he  was  faire, 

Seemed  he  was  some  Erie’s  heir, 

And  perchynge  on  hys  wriste  so  free, 

A  purple  Faucon  there  was  to  see. 
Courteous  hee  turned  hym  to  that  Peere, 
But  Pantagruelle  made  sory  cheare. 

Highe  and  stately  that  boye  hym  bare, 
And  bade  hym  ahyde  hys  Father  there. 
When  the  Father  was  there  yn  place, 
Never  had  knyght  so  foul  a  face ; 

He  was  tusked  as  anie  boare, 

Brystly  behind  and  eke  before  ; 

Lyons  staring  as  they  were  wood, 

Salvage  bull  that  liveth  on  blood, 

He  was  fylthy  as  any  sowe, 

Blacke  and  hairy  as  a  blacke  cowe ; 

All  yn  a  holy  priest’s  attyre, 

Never  was  seene  so  fowle  a  syre. 

***** 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


21)6 


WRITTEN  AT  BIRMINGHAM,  DURING  A  SLEEPLESS 

NIGHT. 

OCCASIONED  BY  A  BALL  BEING  HELD  IN  THE  SAME  INN. 

510  ’il  Vi  (tty a  nfaQos  bSotn6pw  ea aerai  dvipl, 

"O amp  liiKTipsvdv  ttot  tizepxdpevog  nroXiedpov, 

*H  k\eivViv  AevKirjv,  fi  BtXor ova,  fj  Bpepixapov 
XoXk6ito\iv ,  (piXov  olkov  ayavopog  ' H^aiaroio' 

Proh  Deos !  certe  magnus  dolor  peregrino  erit  viro, 
Quicunque  bene  habitatam  aliquando  adveniens  civitatem, 
Aut  nobilem  Lyciam,  aut  Bilstonem,  aut  Bremichamum 
iEris-civitatem,  charam  dornum  ob  virtutem-mirabilis 
Yulcani. 

NOTJE. 

V.  510.  Otioindpcx)  avfipi.  Quis  forot  ille  peregrinus  non  adhuc  satis  constat. 
Herculem  Scholiastes,  Thesea  alii  intelligunt.  Non  animadvertere 
scilicet  boni  interpretes  de  seipso  Poetam  haec  loqui,  quern  Poetarn 
laspida  fuisse  Anglo-Phoenicem  ipse  supra  demonstravi:  Excurs.  i. 
v.  17.  hujus  libri.  Et  tamen  cl.  Turnebo  Moses  his  versibus  annui 
videtur :  quam  verd,  judicent  alii. 

Ubinam  sit  ilia  Lycia  mihi  haeret  aqua.  Lyciam  Asiaticam  faciunt 
vet.  Schol.  absurde :  de  Anglicanis  enim  civitatibus  agitur,  neque 
ir roYuOpov  ista  Lycia.  A evktiv  Hemsterhusius  legit,  nullis  annuen- 
tibus  Codd.  Nescio  an  a  lupis  nomen  habens  nunc  etiam  ore  ver- 
naculari  Wolverhampton  audit.  De  Bilstone  et  Bremichamo  etiam 
in  celeberrimo  Jacobo  Thomsono  Bremicham  invenimus: 

— “  Thy  thund’ring  pavement,  Bremicham.” 

Kal  t6t£  ifi  psya\ r)V  tirtrri&stiomiv  boprrjv 
515  TIktovcs  avQpemoi ,  ptya  nXovaioi,  otf  pa\a  tt am 
XaX*d v  ivi  peyapoim  Ocdg  Kal  XPva^v  £&<vks’ 

*'E vQ'  apa  navvvxlotai  X°P°Ts  rkpirovai  <pi\ov  Krjp 
Kovpai  lifavai  re,  Kal  dvkpes  evKovievres. 

Hei<Tpds  vnepde  vodrZv  yiverai  pkyas,  ev  yap  iKatrrof 
620  2/ripra,  jr<5XX’  vdwv,  Kviaan  6'  £tj  ovpavdv  riKSi. 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC.  297 

Et  tunc  quidem  magnum  cum-studio-parant  festum 

Fabri  viri,  multum  divites,  quibus  valde  omnibus 
Es  in  aedibus  Deus  (Yulcanus  sc.)  et  aurum  dedit : 

Inde  ergo  per-totam-noctem-durantibus  choris  delectant 
suum  cor 

Yirgines  bene-cinctse,  et  viri  pulchro-modo-pulverulenti. 

[Sc.  pulverosum  habentes  caput. 

Motus  sub  pedibus  fit  magnus,  bene  vero  unusquisque 

Salit,  multum  sudans,  odor  vero  nidoris  ad  coelum  ascendit. 

NOTjE. 

V.  514.  Non  hospitale  (ut  videtur)  festum  paravere  Bremichamenses,  exclu- 
sum  enim  fuisse  advenam  satis  constat.  Ergo  Bonae  Bern  tunc  agi 
sacra  Clarkius  existimat,  falso,  istiusmodi  enim  sacris  omnes  exclu- 
debantur  viri,  et  tamen  v.  518.  c ivipes  eixovievres  invenimus.  Ut  ob- 
scoenm  essent  istae  saltationes,  monente  Abrescio,  vix  crederem,  etsi 
nudis  mamillis  exilique  veste  saltasse  puellas  ad  omnibus  fere 
accepimus.  Talia  vocant  festa  Galli  “  un  bal  pare,”  Anglicd 
44  <3n  assmbla.” 

V.  518.  avepes  evKovUvreg.  De  Barbarico  capitis  ornatu  tantuin  innotuit  ut 
tritum  fortasse  et  tenue  argumentum  videar  aggressus;  ’AXX’  opus 
eipfjaerat.  Noscant  juniores  quod  inter  plurimas  Barbarorum  gentes, 
Hottentotas  sc.  et  Caffros  et  Anglos,  mos  erat  patrius  lardo,  nidore 
ursarum,  et  similibus  collinere  crines,  et  deinde  albo  quodam  pulvere 
conspergere  et  consorere.  evKovievres,  Gallice  “bien  poudr6;”  Angli^ 
44  foell  potobere'D." 

’Eac  Si  \vpoov  xhrai  yXviccpdv  pe\os,  fie  ovpiyywv. 

*AXX’  6  lei vos  evepde  Kadi&rcu  dxvvpevos  Krjp 
&i<ppip  deixeXup  a cXiOeig,  Ktvefi  re  Toaize^q, 

XeiXeaiv  ovr  brl  ieiirvov  ex<ov,  ovr  Sppaaiv  vitvov. 

K.  T.  X. 

Lyrarum  vero  effunditur  dulcis  sonus  aut  tibiarum — 
Advena  vero  infra  sedet  dolore-affectus  cor 
Sedili  inbonesto  reclinans,  vacu&que  mensd, 

Labris  neque  cibum  habens,  nec  oculis  somnum,  &c. 


298 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


NOTjE. 

V.  522.  Non  in  infernis*  regionibus,  ut  insomniavit  bonus  vir,  Editor  Glas- 
guensis,  ut  inferiori  camera,  pedibusque  saltantium  subjecta. 

V.  524.  Observandum  est  quarn  mira  arte  Poeta  sui  viatoris  patrium  innuit 
pudorem.  Si  nempe  Scotus  fuisset  Hibernusve,  mirum  esset,  ne 
innata  fretus  audaci&,  Anglice,  “sporting  a  face,”  coenarn  sibi,  et  gra¬ 
tis,  comparasset.  Cum  vere  et  Anglus  sit,  et  ingenui  pudoris  puer, 
manet  immotus  paivdpevds  nep  dum  empto  tardoque  coquorum  auxilio 
sibi  cibus  paratur. .  De  Anglorum  modestiS,  vide  cl.  Marklandum  in 
hunc  locum. 


R.  W.  HAY,  ESQ. 

All  Souls,  1857. 

Zura  Hoch-und  Wohlgeiboren  TTerm  von  Hay  des  Collegium  Chnsti  gradiiatirtem  Studente, 
des  Kais:  liussich:  Ordens  des  Bur  und  des  Schliisselblume  Ritter,  die.  die.  de 

Komm  mein  Freund,  ich  bitte,  mit  miram  Montag  zu 
speisen, 

Aber,  ich  muss  dir  sagen  dass  kein  auslandishes  Essen 
Gebe  ich  dir;  mit  Schinken-Geschmack  die  sauere  Krauter, 
Nicht  die  herrliche  Fische,  die  kostbare  Suppe  des  Sterlet, 
Oder  mit  salzem  Butter  den  Barsch,  den  wassergekochten. 
Und,  ach,  leider  des  Armuths !  den  guten  vortrefflichen 
Rheinwein 

Hier  bekommest  du  nicht  aus  griinen  Glaser  getrunken, 
Und  das  dickes  Bier,  was  liebt  der  durstige  Deutscher  ! 
Hier  sind  bloss  Kartoffeln,  und  nur  ein  gewaltiges  Beef - 
steak , 

Oder  ein  Schopsenbraten,  und  ein  Par  Kiichlein  mit  Zunge, 
{Jnd  ein  Salat,  und  Englisches  Bier,  und  Wasser  von 
Schweppe, 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


299 


(Jnd  Walniisse  nach  Tisch,  mit  rothlichen  Wein  von  Oporto, 
Also  bleib  icb  indessen, 

Mit  einer  wahren  Hocbacbtung, 

Lieber  Herr  Hay, 

Euer  unterthanigster, 

Reginald  Heber. 
Die  Zeit  ist  balb  secbs — die  Local  meine  eigene  Stube. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

AFTER  THE  MANNER  OF  SPENSER. 

And  by  that  mansion’s  western  side  there  stoode 
An  ancient  bowre  enwrapte  in  darkest  shade 
Of  sacred  elde,  and  wide-encircling  woode, 
Seemed  it  was  for  saintlye  abbesse  made. 

Strong  were  the  doors  with  yron  barrs  arraide 
For  fear  of  foe  that  them  enharmen  myghte, 

Ne  any  durst  that  fort  for  to  invade, 

For  by  the  wicket  grate,  bothe  daye  and  nyghte, 
A  snowy  guardian  sate;  of  old  that  Bunny  highte, 

And  all  withinne  were  books  of  various  lore, 

St.  Leon’s  toils,  and  Bible  nothinge  newe, 

And  needle-work,  and  artists’  busie  store 
Of  crumbling  chalke,  and  tyntes  of  everie  hue  ; 
And  on  the  ground  most  terrible  to  view, 

Dame  Venus’  mangled  limbs  were  strewn  around; 


300 


HEBER’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  soothe  to  tell,  the  goddess  envyous  grewe 
When  here  she  saw  myght  fairer  forms  be  found, 

And  dash  d  in  pieces  small  her  statue  on  the  ground. 

Such  is  that  bowre,  but  who  shall  dare  pourtraye 
What  sister  fairies  there  their  spells  combine ; 

She,  whose  younge  charms  the  rugged  harte  cold  swaye 
Of  prelate  olde,  and  never  tamed  divine. 

She,  limneresse  of  Spenser,  (maister  mine,) 

Angelic  limneresse,  in  whose  darke  eye 
Dothe  wit’s  wild  glance  and  playful  beauty  shine, 

And  she  of  shapeliest  form  and  stature  highe, 

And  meeke  unconscious  state  and  winning  majestie. 


